


Turns

by Agents_of_Sherlolly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Fidelius Charms, Hermione Holmes the Sherlolly Baby, Hufflepuff Molly, M/M, Memory Alteration, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Potter!Lock, Pre-Marauders' Era, Psychic Sherlock, Ravenclaw Sherlock, Teenlock, don't mess with Hufflepuffs, generational strife, it's not technically underage in the Potterverse if they're all 17, mentions of drug use, the Viclock ends unhappily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-06 17:55:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5426345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agents_of_Sherlolly/pseuds/Agents_of_Sherlolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes left the wizarding world after Hogwarts, but when he meets up with Molly Hooper at St Bart’s hospital, he finds that the past can’t be so easily left behind.  As history repeats itself in his life as well as in the life of their daughter, Hermione “Granger” Holmes, will the same mistakes be made again, or can a balance be found between duty and sentiment?</p><p>“The wheel turns, nothing is ever new.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I own neither Sherlock nor Harry Potter. I might be the first to write about this particular headcanon, although it seems so obvious to me that I find that hard to believe. 
> 
> Beta'd by [BeautifullyObsessed](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifullyObsessed/pseuds/BeautifullyObsessed), but I was editing up to the very end so I promise that any mistakes you may find are mine.

_1981 - 1st November_

The sky was filled with sparks - red and blue and silver and gold.

It was an unusual day for fireworks - nothing on the calendar to celebrate.  The little family standing in their back garden, however, knew exactly what it meant.  Those weren't fireworks, they were wand sparks.  It was a celebration - the war was over.

"It's over, then?  We can go back to our lives?"

The man currently known as Scott Granger looked down at his wife.  He could feel the tentative relief, the hope she was trying not to feel.  He hated to be the one to have to dash it.  "No.  No, it's not over.  This is only a respite.  For how long, I don't know."

He had sworn never to hurt her again, but there was no way around it.  It still wasn't safe for them, and it wouldn't be until someone - anyone - had taken the information he'd provided (incomplete as it was) and used it to end the threat once and for all.  Until then, he had to keep his family safe.  Until then, he had to keep his family - his wife and his two-year-old daughter - hidden.

He'd thought it would be difficult, leaving behind his life as a consulting detective, but it turned out that nothing had ever brought him as much joy as raising his daughter.  It was a bit unorthodox, having the mother go back to work while the father stayed home with the baby; but then, they had always been a bit unorthodox themselves.  And besides, pathologists were needed everywhere.  There was only one consulting detective in the world, and resuming work in the job that he had invented would give them away.

And he felt so much love, so much protectiveness, for his little girl, that he'd never even missed his old life.  He'd do anything, sacrifice anything, to keep her safe.

And if that meant living the rest of his life pretending to be a muggle, so be it.


	2. Chapter 2

_1976, December_

It was Christmastime when she reappeared in his life.

Molly Hooper, _Doctor_ Molly Hooper, was loading specimens into the centrifuge when he strode into the lab at St. Bart's, and he pretended not to recognize her.  She was so heartbreakingly happy to see him, so relieved that he was still alive, that he couldn't bear to look at her, couldn't bear to tell her where he'd been and what he'd been doing; couldn't bear to see that happiness change to disappointment.

He said nothing at all to her until she called him "Will."

He looked at her then.  "That's not my name, my name is Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes."

She stood very still as she stared at him with her giant brown eyes.  "Sorry, must have mistaken you for someone else."

They both knew that she hadn't.

And when he left, when he walked through the doors and down the hallway and into the stairwell, he had to stop and lean heavily against the wall as the floor seemed to spin around him and his stomach swooped about.  Sherlock closed his eyes and fought to control his breathing, control his thoughts, control his _feelings_.

He wasn't supposed to ever see her again.

 

* * *

 

He was back.  Will was back...William Sherlock Scott Holmes, Ravenclaw, great bloody git, the only person she'd met at Hogwarts who she'd ever wanted to see again after leaving.  Seven years later, he was finally back.

He hadn't acknowledged that he'd known her, but that's alright, she wouldn't have expected anything different.  Magical folk living as muggles have to be careful not to arouse too many questions.  But he _had_ recognized her.  She knew he had.  He must have.  How could he not?

And where on earth had be _been_? What had he been doing since he (quite literally) disappeared?  He'd stepped off the train at King's Cross in the spring of 1969 and disapparated, leaving his school trunk behind, and vanished without a trace.  She'd been worried about him, God, so very worried, and it was such a _relief_ to see him here, alive and well and _gorgeous_.  Maybe that's why he wouldn't meet her eyes.  He'd always hated it when she worried and fussed over him.

He'd needed it, though.  Without someone to take care of him, he neglected his own needs and quickly went downhill.  She'd seen it happen, their final year at Hogwarts.  She wondered, briefly, who was taking care of him now, or if maybe he'd finally learned to take care of himself.  But in the end, it didn't really matter.  All that mattered, was that he was _alive_.  Alive and healthy and _here_ , in her life again - which wasn't as important as the fact that he wasn't dead; but there was a lightness in her chest that was so distinct that it made her dizzy.  A weight that she'd become completely accustomed to was suddenly gone, a hole in her heart was filled, and tears of happiness and relief burned behind her eyes.

A smile stayed on her face for the rest of the day.

 

* * *

 

 

_1967, Spring_

The grass was soft under her legs and the air was the kind of sweet, rain-washed clean that only ever happened far from the city.  Clouds like candy floss floated high in a dazzling blue sky, and Molly Jean Hooper lay on her back, watching them shift like smoke, like magic.

She was so deep in contemplation that she swore she could almost make out the individual droplets of water, miles upon miles above her, when an unexpected shadow fell across her face.

"Why aren't you in Ravenclaw?"

Molly scrambled up to a seated position.  William Holmes was looming above her, his blue and bronze striped tie loose around his neck, two...no, three buttons undone, robes unfastened and carelessly hanging open.  _Well_ , Molly thought, _at least he's not one of those who goes about without trousers under his robes._

"I'm sorry, wh...what?" she stuttered as she smoothed down her skirt where it had started to ride up past her knees in her haste to sit up.  William's eyes followed her hands and lingered for a moment before snapping back to her face.

"You've beaten me again.  How do you keep on doing it?"

Her fingers tangled in her hair, combing and twirling anxiously, as she stared at the ground.  "I...I don't know."

"The most brilliant student in Ravenclaw, continually graded lower than a _Hufflepuff_ ...it doesn't make _sense_."

"Well, m-maybe if you actually st-studied one in a while."

Will raised an eyebrow and sat down.  He'd never seen Molly fight back before, at least not to him.  "I've offended you."

"Well spotted."

"I didn't mean..."

"That the only witches and wizards who could possibly be intelligent are those who a magical, talking hat have deemed worthy?"  She couldn't bring herself to look at him, but her voice was steady.

"...No...?"

Molly's head snapped up.  "That _is_ what you meant, isn't it?"

"Whatever I, or the rest of the wizarding world, believe about the merits of the Sorting Hat system, and the relative attributes of those placed in each respective house, is not relevant to the conversation I was trying to have.  Or at least, not directly."

"Oh, really?"

" _No_.  Look, Ravenclaw is the house for those who value learning above all else.  Which you, obviously, do.  So, Little Miss Perfect, _why_ aren't you in Ravenclaw?"

Molly sighed and looked away again.  Will followed her gaze to a dandelion a few feet away; a bee was buzzing about it.  "I don't know.  The Hat put me in Hufflepuff, and that's just the way it works here."

"And that doesn't bother you?  The lack of logic?"

She shrugged.  "There must be _some_ logic to it that I just don't understand yet."

"You have _faith_."  His nose crinkled adorably as he spit the word out, as if it tasted bad.

Molly shrugged and looked out across the lake.  "I suppose.  Look, this whole world is still pretty new to me -"

"You've just finished your sixth year."

"After living for eleven years with no idea that any of this existed!  I don't understand it, not really, so I've decided to just kind of...go with it.  I trust it will all make sense in the end."

Will didn't know what to say to that, so he continued to watch as the bee flew away from the dandelion and towards Molly.  It landed momentarily on the book resting by her feet.

"Calculus?  That's a muggle subject."

"It is."

"They don't teach calculus at Hogwarts."

"No, they don't."

"You intend to return to the muggle world after completing your magical studies."

Molly looked at him then, really looked at him, one brow raised just slightly, a single black curl falling across his forehead, cheeks just barely pink - that's odd - lips just barely parted, iridescent eyes focused on hers before flickering downward and then looking away.

"It was an obvious deduction."

"Yes, well, I...I've known since I was very young what I want to be when I grow up.  I don't see the point in giving all of that up, just because I happen to be a witch."  To be perfectly honest, Molly Hooper was sick to death of the way the wizarding world worked.  Hadn't any of them ever heard of _science_ , for goodness' sake?  They could use magic to tell what spell killed a person, but those who'd died of natural causes were a complete mystery to them, one that _nobody seemed to care to solve_.

It was absolutely unacceptable to Molly.  The need to keep magic a secret from the muggles only went so far to excuse willful ignorance.

"Will you teach me?"  He looked as surprised by his words as she was.

"You want me to teach you calculus?"

"And...and whatever other muggle subjects you think are important.  It must be...lonely...studying them by yourself."

"I don't think I'm qualified to, to t-teach..."

"We'll learn together, then."  He was giving her what could only be described as a sad puppy dog face, chin tipped down so that he was looking up at her with his ridiculously beautiful eyes, his lips actually _pouting_ , and Molly found that she simply couldn't say no to him.

"Okay," she squeaked.  Will picked up the book from the ground, and opened it to Chapter 1, setting it on her lap.  Goosebumps raised on her skin where his fingers brushed.  "Okay."

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  "So this is based in the same concepts as what we've learned in arithmancy, but the application is different..."

 

* * *

 

 

_1994, August_

Hermione didn't tell anyone how she knew what the Dark Mark was.  She didn't tell anyone that her Dad had one on his forearm, that she used to trace it with her tiny fingers while she sat in his lap listening to his deep, deep voice reading about chemical reactions and molecular biology and pirate adventures.

She told everyone that she'd seen it in a book, and they had no reason to doubt her.  What she didn't tell them was how horrified she'd been when she found it in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_.  How her heart sank as she read about it and realized what this meant.  How she'd cried all night until Mummy knocked on her door to come down to breakfast, and found her with red puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks and explained it all.

"No," she'd said.  "Daddy isn't evil.  Daddy is a great man, and he is very, very brave."

And so when that same mark appeared in the sky over Dartmoor at the Quidditch World Cup, Hermione knew _exactly_ what it meant - for the wizarding world at large, for muggle-born witches and wizards, for Harry, for herself.  For her mum and dad.

What they had learned about what happened to Harry's parents had shaken her confidence in the infallibility of their current method of protection.  And what she had seen tonight had shown her, in a stark green light, that even if the world continued to believe that they were muggles, even _that_ wouldn't be enough to keep them safe.  Nothing would ever be enough.

The mood was somber as the Weasleys and Harry and Hermione gathered around the rickety kitchen table in their borrowed tent.

"So...whoever conjured the dark Mark..." Hermione said as she absently stirred her tea - around and around and around - the sugar long since dissolved, "were they doing it to show support for the Death Eaters, or to scare them away?"

"Your guess is as good as ours, Hermione."  Mr. Weasley sounded exhausted.  "But I'll tell you this...it was only the Death Eaters who ever knew how to conjure it.  I'd be very surprised if the person who did it hadn't been a Death Eater once, even if they're not now..."

_Even if they're not now._

Hermione doubted very much that there were very many wizards or witches who had simply _stopped_ being Death Eaters.  It wasn't exactly an easy thing to get away from.  Nobody knew that better than her family.

"Are you alright, Hermione?"

Hermione looked up to see Ginny's concerned face frowning at her.  The boys were slumping back to their bunks; she supposed that Mr. Weasley had told them all to go back to bed while she was inside of her head.

 _No, I'm not alright_ , Hermione thought miserably, _but I can't tell you about it.  Not you nor anyone else, ever._

"Yeah, I'm fine.  Let's go back to bed."

Neither of them spoke again until they were back in their own tent, huddled into their sleeping bags.

"Ron seemed awfully protective of you tonight."

Hermione closed her eyes and sighed.  "Well, I was the most at risk out of any of us."

"I just think his behavior seemed awfully chivalrous, is all."

Hermione couldn't keep a smile from creeping onto her face.  Just a small one.  "Of course.  He's a Gryffindor."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Conversation at the Quidditch World Cup from _Goblet of Fire_ , chapter nine.


	3. Chapter 3

_1977_

_"What do you mean, gay?"_

He certainly hadn't lost his ability to tear apart her relationships in less than a minute flat, while _absolutely humiliating_ her in the process.

The minute hand clicked one tick closer to six o'clock, and Molly fiddled with her pen.

She wished she were as skilled at legilimency as Sherlock, or even that she had any aptitude for it at all, as she waited for her shift to end so she could go meet Jim at The Fox.  Was he really gay?  If Sherlock said was, then it must be true...unless he was lying.  But he wouldn't do that.  Would he?

 _Of course he would_ , Molly's inner voice whispered.  He'd never been above lying, if lying got him what he wanted.  He was an expert at manipulation.  But what could he _possibly_ gain from telling Molly her boyfriend was gay?  Nothing, that's what.

Unless... _No_ , Molly scolded herself.  _Don't even go there.  You know that's not it._

Which could only mean that he was telling the truth; Jim from Accounting was gay.  And he had used her to get close enough to Sherlock to...to  _hit_ on him.

Molly lifted the phone off the hook and was just about to dial when she heard a soft knock on her office door.  She was surprised to see the subject of her angst-ridden musings standing bashfully in the doorway, a shy smile turning up his lips as he gazed at her with dark, puppy-dog eyes.

"Jim!  Hi!  What are you doing here?"

"You seemed a little upset, last I saw you.  I was able to get away for a moment and I wanted to make sure you're alright."

"Oh!  Yes, yes, of course I am."

"Molls, don't lie to me.  You know I can tell."

_You're perfectly capable of lying to me though, aren't you?_

He had stepped right up to the desk, but made no move to sit down, staring down at her with a look of concern on his face that inexplicably made her feel disquieted.

"Sherlock said...he said some things.  About you."

He raised his perfectly shaped eyebrows.  "Jealous, is he?"

Molly scoffed.  "Not quite.  But he's really very good at reading people, you know that, I've _told_ you that.  And he, um, he seems to think that you, um..."  She couldn't bring herself to say it.

"That I'm gay."  Molly's head snapped up, her eyes wide.  "I did hear what he said, you know.  I'm not stupid."

"I never thought that you were."

"But you _did_ think that he might be right."

"Well, like I said, he's very good at reading...behavior...and external clues..."  She was starting to feel very uncomfortable sitting there with him staring down at her, like a bug under a microscope.

"Which is not the same thing as reading minds, though, is it?" Molly felt herself stiffen with tension for a moment before she forced herself to relax, and hoped desperately that Jim wasn't half as good at reading emotional cues as Sherlock.  "It's possible for even the Great Sherlock Holmes to be wrong sometimes."

"Is he?  Is he wrong about you?"

Jim looked down at his nails.  "Labels are so boring, don't you think, Molly?"

"Labels?"

"Gay, straight, _boring_.  Doesn't matter much to me what a person's gender is, if I find them interesting."

Molly felt her heart sink straight down to her shoes.  "And you find Sherlock interesting."

"As do you."

She sat up as straight and tall as her small frame allowed.  "So he was right, you slipped him your number, you...you _used_ me to get close enough to him to - "

Jim dropped his head back in exaggerated exasperation.  "Molly, stop being so _obvious_.  The jealous girlfriend. really?"

Molly stared at the man in front of her, suddenly acting so differently from the man she'd gone on three dates with.  Like he was a completely different person.  "I'm not your girlfriend."

"I see."  He studied her for a moment, and then shrugged, his voice suddenly going light and breezy.  "Well, that's a little disappointing, though not exactly unexpected.  I'll see you around, Molly."

The he was gone, and Molly leaned back heavily in her chair, completely bewildered as to what had just happened.  She knew that she had been played, but had absolutely no idea what the game was.

 

* * *

 

 

_1968, Fall_

He could feel her presence as she approached the library.

She stopped just outside the door, holding _his_ hand.  She turned to face him, raised up on her toes, and pressed her lips to his.  The connection of their hands lingered as he walked away, and Molly gazed after him for a moment before turning and walking through the doorway, a small smile lingering on her lips as she approached her usual seat.

"Not worth it."

"Sorry?" Molly replied as she sat down and started digging through her bag.

"He's not worth your time.  You deserve better."

Molly sighed and leaned back in her seat.  "All right, what's wrong this time?"

"Heroin."

" _What?_ "

"He smuggled in heroin in his potions kit, with the intention of selling it.  Hasn't quite worked up the nerve to try, yet."

" _How_ do you know that?"  Will just shrugged.  "You've been reading minds again, haven't you."  It wasn't a question.  Molly didn't need to use legilimency to know what he'd been up to.  It was written all over his face, at least as far as she was concerned.

"I _told_ you Molly, I can't help it!  It isn't a learned skill for me, _turning it off_ is something I've had to learn.  And sometimes I just can't manage it."

"You only have trouble with it when you're overtired.  Have you been sleeping?"

" _Yes, Mum._ "

"Don't 'yes Mum' me!  You've been skipping meals lately, don't think I haven't noticed, and if you're having trouble controlling your legilimency, that means you're not sleeping, either.  You can't fool me, Will."

Will rolled his eyes.  "Fine, I'll sleep tonight, happy?"

"Yes."

"Now let's get on with the studying, shall we?"

They'd been working in silence for several minutes when Molly looked over at his paper.

"Will, you aren't really calculating to 10 digits of pi, are you?"

"Of course I am."

"The book says that two is perfectly sufficient."

"The book is lazy.  I prefer accuracy."

"But we're writing out all the calculations by hand!  Why make it so much harder on yourself?"

"If it's worth doing at all, it's worth doing _right_."

Molly rolled her eyes (a gesture that was as natural to her at this point as breathing) so hard that her head flopped back.  Feeling a delicious stretch across the front of her throat, she sighed and continued to roll her head around, bringing her chin down to her chest before changing directions.  It was truly ridiculous how much tension she'd accumulated in her neck and back from all her countless hours of huddling over her books, quill in hand.  _Maybe I should get outside more_ , she thought, as she arched her back, stretching her arms above her head.  _Some fresh air and sunshine might be good for me._

When she opened her eyes and brought her arms back to the table in front of her, Molly completely missed Will looking hurriedly back to his parchment, although she did see a girl - Annalise?  Emmeline? - staring at Will from a couple of tables over.

Molly elbowed Will and leaned close to whisper in his ear.  "She likes you."

She thought she felt him shiver.  "Who?"

"That girl over there."  Molly didn't want to be so obvious as to point, so she gestured with her eyebrows.  "Annalee, or Imogen, or whatever her name is."

Will didn't look up, but he stopped writing.  "You don't know her?"

"No."

"Then how could you possibly know that she likes me?"

"It's not that hard to tell, Will, she's _staring_ at you.  God, for a genius, you can be incredibly thick."

Still never having looked up from his parchment, Will resumed writing number after number.  "Girls aren't really my area."

"Really?  Never would have known."  She picked up her quill and glanced up surreptitiously as she asked, obviously trying very hard to seem nonchalant, "So you're not interested in Emmeline, then?"

Will didn't look up.  "No."

"Are you interested in _any_ girls?"

"Molly," he warned.

"Because I could help you out a bit, talk you up to them - "

"Molly, this topic is monstrously uncomfortable."

"All right.  I'm sorry.  I'll drop it."

After a moment of slightly uncomfortable silence, filled only with the scartching of quills on parchment, Will threw his quill down.  "Why are you trying so hard to set me up with someone?"

Molly shrugged.  "You seem lonely.  Everybody deserves to have someone."

Maybe that was true.  But he doubted very much that he deserved the someone who he wanted.

"You two...and keep in mind that it's a Ravenclaw telling you this...you two are nerds."

Will still didn't look up.  There was no need.  He'd felt Victor's presence as he approached; known that he was going to say something snarky.  Vic liked to be clever.  "Mmm.  That would be positively scathing if we actually cared."

"Hello, Victor.  Would you like to sit down?"  Molly was smiling.  Always so polite.

"As if you could stop him."

"Shut it, Will, you know you like having me around."  Will grunted, but didn't look up from his parchment.  Truth be told, he _did_ like having Victor Trevor around - largely because he was one of exactly two people at Hogwarts who liked having _him_ around.  It made life a bit easier, having a friend in his House.  But he didn't have to go around advertising that fact.  "So what are you working on now?"

"Geometry," Molly answered amiably.

"Which is?"

"Mathematics involving shapes.  In this case, circles."

"Why on earth would you need to know that?"  Victor loved learning as much as the next Ravenclaw, but he was very practical.  He didn't like to waste time learning things that he wasn't likely to need to know in his day-to-day life.  He was _fantastic_ at transfiguration, but History of Magic...not so much.  He'd even let Molly teach him some basic maths, just enough to keep track of his family's finances - because that was _useful_.  The stuff Molly and Will got up to in their study sessions was _boring_.

Will still didn't look up.  "Performing complex equations keeps the mind sharp."

Victor raised a perfect eyebrow at Molly, who only shrugged.  "God, you two.  Nerds."

"Well, takes one to know one."  Will could hear the smirk in her voice.

Will felt something then, pushing at the edges of his mind, a feeling that he almost didn't recognize as coming from outside of himself, at first.  _Want_.

It was coming from Victor.

Will finally raised his head, and looked from Vic to Molly and back again.  _Vic fancies Molly?_   It made sense.  They would be good together, he supposed.  They were both sweet, clever, relatively patient... _able, in short, to tolerate you,_ a voice in his head (that sounded disconcertingly like his brother) taunted.

"I suppose you've done your Potions essay already, then?"  Victor was asking.

"Actually, no."  Molly sounded a bit sheepish.  "Maybe we should get started on that, Will?"

"Boring."

He could practically hear her eyes rolling.  "Be that as it may, we still need to get it done."

"I'll do it later."

"Suit yourself," Victor lilted.  "Don't come crying to us when it's an hour 'til class time and you haven't gotten it done."

Will continued to scribble number after number, trying very hard not ot think about the two people sitting across from him, now debating the ethical implications of love potions.  He tried not to imagine what it would be like, if the two of them were dating.  Holding hands under the table, Molly sitting on Victor's lap, the two of them going to Hogsmeade together and leaving him behind...

He didn't recognize or understand the feelings that those images brought up in his chest, so he did the only thing he could think of to deal with it.

He gathered up his books and left.

 

* * *

 

 

_1994, Christmas_

The air was cold, but not as cold as one would expect it to be on December 25th in Scotland.  Probably some sort of warming charm had been cast over the rose garden that had been placed just outside the castle.  Normally Hermione would have taken the time to try to figure out how it had been done, but just now she found that she didn't really care.  She was still positively _fuming_ as she cast herself down on one of the benches and struggled to control her breathing.

 _How dare he_.  To imply that the only reason anyone could ever want to spend time with her, was to get close to _Harry_ \- unbelievable.  Honestly, Ron's jealousy of Harry's fame was starting to get out of control, he was seeing plots where there were none.

 _But_ , the vicious little voice in the back of her head taunted, _he wasn't the only one who was shocked, was he? That you're here as Viktor Krum's date_.  Why _had_ he asked her?  It's not like she was the prettiest girl, or the most interesting...

"Herm-own-ninny."

Hermione jumped up and spun around.  "Viktor!"  How long had he been standing right behind her?

He was unfastening the fur-lined cloak that he wore over his formal uniform.  "Herm-own-ninny, you are shivering."  Before she could protest, he had draped it around her shoulders.  "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, I..."  Hermione realized that she must look a fright - she was sniffling and she was sure that there must be tear tracks staining her cheeks.  She sighed and sat back down.  "I had an argument with a friend."

"I am sorry to hear that," Viktor said as he stepped around the bench and sat down next to her.  "Was it...did you argue about me?"

Hermione took a deep breath and held it for a moment.  "Ron thinks that you're using me to get to Harry."  The words just fell out of her mouth without the slightest detour through her brain, and she winced as they hung in the winter air.

"Is that what _you_ think?"

"No!  I mean, I don't...I don't think...I don't _want_ to think that."

"But now you are not sure."

Hermione stared down at her hands in her lap, spinning her bracelet around and around her wrist.  "Well it's not like it's really obvious, why you would..." she trailed off.

"Why I would what?'

"Why you would ask me to come to the ball with you."

"Why would I not?"

"Because you're _famous_ and you could have _anyone_ you wanted.  And I'm just...I'm just me."

"But I _like_ 'just you'."

Hermione wanted to tell him that she liked him too, but if she were entirely honest with herself, she knew that she couldn't say that with any kind of certainty.  Maybe she liked him, or maybe she liked that _he_ liked _her_.  Hermione had fully expected to end up coming to the Ball with Harry - she knew that he was useless around girls he fancied and would freeze up in the face of finding a date.  And as a Champion, he _needed_ one, so of course, Hermione would help him out, because that's what friends _do._

But that hadn't happened.  Viktor had approached her in the Library long before Harry and Ron ( _that git!_ ) had even _thought_ about her.  And they'd just _assumed_ that she would be available; they never even _asked_ if she'd already gotten a date.  Worst of all, Ron had thought she was _lying_.  As if she'd ever lied to them about anything!

Well, anything that she wasn't magically obligated to lie about, anyway.  But it's not like Ron knew about that, so the point was moot.  And she couldn't have told the truth about that even if she'd wanted to.

But _Viktor_.  Viktor had asked her to the ball, _just because he wanted to go with her_.  He'd been following her around for weeks trying to pluck up the courage to speak to her - to _her!_ \- and he'd finally done it _days_ before stupid Ron Weasley even remembered that one of his best friends was a girl.

And it had made her feel _special_.  Despite all of those silly, simpering girls following him around, he wanted to ask _her_.  He wanted to get to know _her_.  And God, but that made her feel good.  For the first time since...ever, really...Hermione felt pretty.  Feminine.   _Desired_.  And those feelings were so overwhelming that it was hard to discern anything else.  How she actually felt about Viktor as a person was nearly impossible to separate from how he made her feel about _herself_.  And maybe, just this once, that was okay.

Maybe it was selfish, and unfair to Viktor, but she liked that he liked her.  And so, sitting on a stone bench in the midst of a magical rose garden, under the twinkling light of hundreds of fairies and thousands of stars, Hermione let Viktor Krum kiss her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to [Bells](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheBellsInVenice/pseuds/AllTheBellsInVenice) for suggesting a 1978 version of "Jim from IT".


	4. Chapter 4

_1978_

Molly was awakened by a frantic pounding on her front door.  She jumped out of bed and hurried down the hallway, banging her hip on the telephone table as she went.  Her heart leapt into her throat when she looked through the peephole and saw Sherlock.  She opened the locks and threw open the door, gasping as he pushed past her into her flat and slammed the door behind him, re-engaging all of the locks.

"Sherlock!  What are you doing here?"

He grabbed her by the shoulders and raked his intense gaze over her from head to toe.  "Molly, are you still seeing Jim?"

She sighed as she rubbed at the bruise forming on her hip.  "Why does it matter, Sherlock?"

"Molly, he's not what he seems."

" _Yes_ , Sherlock, you told me.  He's gay.  I get it."

"That's not what I meant."

"What _do_ you mean, then?"

"He's the one behind the bombings."

Molly took a step back as Sherlock finally released her.  " _What_?"

"James Moriarty is a dark wizard, Molly."

"Sherlock, that's ridiculous.  What are you even _talking_ about?"

"He just tried to kill John!"

Molly turned and walked into her sitting room, sinking heavily onto the sofa, her head in her hands.  Sherlock followed her, hesitantly.  "Molly."

"No, Sherlock, I'm not still seeing Jim.  I broke it off when...when you said he was..."

Sherlock seemed relieved.  "Has he contacted you since then?"

"No.  No, not at all.  It's like he dropped off the face of the earth.  It's a feeling I'm familiar with."  A note of hysteria was creeping into her voice.  "Does he...does he know?  That you...?"

"That I'm a wizard?  Considering that he's the one who killed Carl Powers, I should say so."

" _What?_ "  Molly knew her jaw was hanging open but couldn't seem to pull herself together enough to close it.

Carl Powers had drowned in the Black Lake in the spring of their second year.  An accident - everyone said it was a tragic accident - everyone except Will.  He'd spent the next several years trying to convince anyone who'd listen that Carl had been murdered.  Molly had believed him, but nobody in any position of authority did.

"He had the shoes."

Molly felt her eyes go very wide.  "So he was at Hogwarts."

"Yes."

"And that's how you know he's a dark wizard, not just a standard insane criminal."

"Magic or no, there's nothing standard about James Moriarty."

"But Sherlock, if he was at Hogwarts, when we were...how could we not have recognized him?"

"I don't know.  I don't like not knowing."

"And does that mean that he knows I'm a witch?"

"Probably."

"Why would he...I don't understand."

Sherlock sat in the brightly patterned armchair and steepled his hands under his chin.  "Neither do I."

He closed his eyes then, and Molly knew that he had gone into his mind palace.  She'd seen him do it enough times to know that he wouldn't be speaking for a while, so she went to the kitchen to make tea.

As she stirred the sugar into two mugs of tea, she couldn't help but smile a little.  This situation was awful, just simply terrible, but Sherlock was sitting in her flat, and she was making tea for them.  There was always a silver lining, and this time it was getting her best friend back, just a little bit.

Molly frowned as she put the spoon in the sink.  He was back in her life, and currently sitting in her favorite chair, but...where was he back _from_?  She still didn't know where he'd ben all those years.

She approached tentatively with the tea, prepared to put it down on the table next to him, to most likely grow cold before he could ever drink it.  But to her surprise, Sherlock looked up, smiled, and took the tea from her.

"Thank you, Molly."

She smiled back, a small warm sensation blooming in her chest.  "I hope you still take it the same way you used to."  She'd been making coffee for him at Bart's, but they hadn't had tea together since their days at Hogwarts.

He took a sip.  "It's perfect."  He frowned.  "What are you thinking about?  You're sad, but it's not about Moriarty."

Molly sat back down on the sofa, her tea clutched in both hands.  "Sherlock...what happened?  When you...after Hogwarts?"

He put his tea down.

He licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair.

He folded his hands in his lap and stared at them.

"Do you remember your boyfriend, the one I warned you about?"

 _Where on earth could he be going with this?_   "Which one?"

"The one with the heroin in his potions kit."

"...Sherlock...?"

"I bought it.  All of it."

Molly slowly reached out to put her tea on the side table; she knew she would drop it if she didn't.  "Oh my God.  Is that why...oh God.So that whole time you were missing, you were..."

"Sleeping under bridges."

"What changed?"

"I nearly died.  I would have, if I'd ended up at a muggle hospital.  Mycroft found me just in time; apparated us to St. Mungo's.  They had to give me detoxifying draughts daily for two weeks before I was out of the woods."

Molly's heart ached.  "I would have helped you."

"I know you would have.  That's why I stayed away.  You deserved better."

"You deserve better than you think."

He looked up.  His eyes met hers, and the moment stretched.  There was vulnerability there that she hadn't seen in years, and even then, only rarely.

"Will, I..."

And with that slip, the moment was gone.  Sherlock was on his feet, popping his collar back up and sweeping to the door  "Thank you for the tea, Molly.  I'm glad to see that you're safe."

"I'm glad you're safe, too."

He paused with his hand on the doorknob.  "Oh, and by the way, Molly...apparently the Earth goes around the sun."

" _What?_   Really?"

Sherlock shrugged.  "Maybe we should have studied astrophysics."

 

* * *

 

 

_1968, Fall_

Will was on his way from breakfast - it was one of those rare days when he'd actually bothered to eat a morning meal - up to Charms class, when he saw Molly staring up at a painting hung next to the staircase in the Great Hall. 

"It's terrible, isn't it? " Her voice was sad.  "That such a horrible accident could happen here at school."

Will followed her gaze up to the painting of a handsome teenaged boy sitting under an oak tree on the school grounds and gazing out over the lake.  A plaque was fastened to the bottom of the frame:

 

> IN MEMORY OF CARL POWERS  
>  1948-1964

"It wasn't an accident."

Her ponytail whipped over her shoulder as she turned to look at him. "What?"

"You heard me.  Not. An. Accident."

"Is he still going on about that?"  Victor's lilting voice broke into the conversation.  "Honestly, it's been _four and a half years_.  Just let it go, already."  He threw an arm over Will's shoulder and directed him away from the painting and up the stairs.  Molly followed, listening intently to the well-worn argument.

"A boy died, Victor.  Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"Of course it does, Will.  But all of this...this _insisting_ that something sinister happened, that's not going to bring him back.  It was a tragic accident, nothing more."

"If it was an accident, then were were his _shoes_ _?_ "

"Will, if that was important, surely _someone_ would have taken notice..."

"Someone _did_.  I did."

Molly's craned her head around Victor's shoulder to look at Will.  "Sorry, his shoes?"

"Carl Powers walked down to the lake, stripped off his robes, folded them neatly and placed them under the tree, then went into the lake for his usual swim.  About ten minutes in, he drowned..."

" _Yes,_ Will," Molly interrupted his recital.  "I was around.  I remember what happened."

"Do you remember that his _shoes were missing?_ "

"...So?"

"So did her walk down from the castle barefoot?"

"...Maybe?"

"Yes, _maybe_ , but they weren't found in his dormitory, either.  So what happened to them, did he eat them?"

Molly's nose was crinkling in that adorable way it did when she was thinking.  "So you're saying that..."

"Somebody took them, yes.  Obviously."

"But why would somebody take his shoes?"

"Why indeed?"

Victor sighed loudly.  "I've been trying to convince this plonker for almost five years that somebody took them as a joke, while he was swimming but before he drowned, and then felt guilty and got rid of them.  Badly timed practical joke, is all."

Molly considered this.  "That sounds reasonable, Will."

Will rolled his eyes.  "Awfully big coincidence, don't you think, that somebody would just _happen_ to steal a popular boy's shoes as a joke, just minutes before he died?"

Molly shrugged.  "Yeah, well, sometimes coincidences happen, Will."

"Oi, don't get him started on coincidences, Molly."

"What? Why..."

"The universe is rarely so lazy."

"And on that note," Victor said as he dragged Will into the Charms classroom, "this is us.  See you later, Molly."

"Bye."

Will felt it again, then, the longing.   But this time he felt it from Molly.

 _Bloody hell, she fancies him too_.

As Will and Victor walked to their usual seats in the back of the room, Will turned his thoughts to Victor, not enough to read his mind exactly, but enough to get the gist of what he was feeling.  There was the _wanting_ again.  Will sighed as he sat down.  This absolutely would not do.

"You're not her type."

"Sorry?"

"Molly.  Not her type.  Even if you were, she probably wouldn't go out with you, something about friendship or some such nonsense.  I wouldn't risk it."

"Why would I -"

"Everyone please take your seats so we can begin," Professor Flitwick's voice cut through the din of pre-class gossip.  "Mister Trevor?"

Victor was standing stock still, looking down at Will with his bag half off his shoulder and a look of such confusion on his face that Will wondered for a moment if he'd gotten it all wrong.  "Victor, sit down."

"Right.  Okay.  Molly."

Vic sat, looking somewhat dazed, radiating feelings of hurt and confuson.  _Ugh, tedious_.  This was exactly why this couldn't be allowed to go any further.  Relationships started at this age rarely lasted more than a month or two, and his only two friends breaking up would wreak absolute havoc on his life. 

He just wished he could turn off the guilt as easily as he could block out Vic's disappointment.

 

* * *

 

 

_1995, Spring_

It happened so fast, she very nearly missed it.

Fleur and Viktor had both been eliminated from the maze, both having apparently been stunned (which was worrisome), but that meant that whether it was Harry or Cedric who reached the cup first, a Hogwarts champion was going to win the Triwizard Tournament.  All that remained to be seen was which one of them it would be.  School spirit had reached a fever pitch.

"...SO TEACH US THINGS WORTH KNOWING, BRING BACK WHAT WE'VE FORGOT, JUST DO YOUR BEST - "

And then suddenly they were back, they landed hard on the grass outside of the maze, and it was Harry _and_ Cedric, they'd won together, and the crowd was cheering but something was wrong.  Cedric's eyes were wide open but he wasn't moving, and Harry was crying, crying, crying.  Why was Harry crying?

" _Oh my God!  Cedric is dead!_ "

There was screaming, and crying, and Hermione and Ron were swept up in the rush of the crowd down out of the bleachers onto the field.  Her ears felt like they were full of cotton; the screams felt far away, and before she could manage to get her feet under her, she stumbled.  She was halfway to the ground, dragged under by the relentless tide of the crowd, when Ron caught her and hauled her against the current, not towards the maze or back onto the bleachers, but away from the crowd entirely.  Like her father had always told her, swim parallel to the shore.

"Ron, this is bad, this is _really bad_.  Cedric is dead, and everyone's going to think that Harry killed him!"

"Can you blame them?  It looks like..."

Hermione felt panic bubble up from the pit of her stomach, filling her chest and catching in her throat.  "I know what it look like, Ron!"  Her chest felt tight, her throat was closing up, she couldn't breathe.  "But I also know that this is Harry.  He wouldn't.  He _wouldn't_."  Tears burned behind her eyes as she struggled to bring her breathing under control, but her vision was starting to go white around the edges.  "He _couldn't_.  It takes a lot of power, a lot of _hatred_ , to perform the Killing Curse, and Harry...Harry...he's only..."

"Hermione, breathe, please."

"I'm trying, Ron, I'm trying!  But I can't!"

She closed her eyes tight and tried to force her breathing to slow, and as she did, she gradually became aware that Ron's hands were resting on her shoulders.  She opened her eyes and saw that he was taking exaggeratedly deep and slow breaths, silently coaching her to do the same.

"That's it," he said softy.  "In...and out.  In...and out."

Hermione slowly felt her heart rate returning to normal, but the choking feeling in her throat remained.  The next thing she knew, she was enfolded in Ron's arms, and tears were streaming down her face.

"We couldn't help him, Ron.  We couldn't help him this time, and something terrible happened."

 

* * *

 

 

When Hermione and her parents got home from King's Cross, the first thing she noticed when her dad took off his jacket was how much darker the Mark on his forearm was.

Hermione felt a swooping sensation in her stomach, uncomfortably similar to how she had felt riding Buckbeak the hippogriff.  She didn't know what she'd been expecting, but she'd _hoped_ , ever since seeing the mark on Professor Snape's arm at the hospital wing, that her dad's Mark hadn't been affected like the rest, that somehow he'd escaped.  But there really was no getting away from it, was there?  The charm had kept the other Death Eaters away for fifteen years, but would it be enough to hide them from Voldemort himself?  Did he know, somehow, that one of his servants was still alive, yet unaccounted for?

And there was a look in Dad's eyes, that set dread in Hermione's heart.  Regret, resignation, _determination_.  Like he felt that this was his fault.  That it was his job to fix it.

And wouldn't that be just like him, to act irrationally and go off, back into danger, trying to save the bloody world, without a thought for the _consequences_.  He couldn't resume his life as a Death Eater as long as the charm held, but... _he had been the one to cast it_.  And that meant that he could break it.

He would do anything to try to keep her out of this, Hermione knew this without a doubt.

She couldn't let him.

There was nothing for it, she'd have to do it.  The last resort she'd come up with while lying awake at night, staring at the canopy over her bed in the Gryffindor dormitory, hoping against hope that such drastic measures would never become necessary.

Hermione crept across the hall to her parents' bedroom and cast a quick silencing charm on the squeaky hinge at the bottom of their door.  Mum was curled up with her head on Dad's chest, hand clenched in the Wimbourne Wasps t-shirt Hermione had sent him for Christmas.  (He wasn't much for Quidditch, but he loved bees.)  His head was turned towards Mum, his nose buried in her hair, his arm curled around her shoulder.  Hermione smiled sadly as she felt her heart clench.

"I'm so sorry," Hermione whispered as she raised her wand.  "I love you both so much."

She cast a deep-sleep charm on both of them so that they would not awaken while she worked, and decided to start with her dad.  _Orange blossom honey in South Australia - he'll like that_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [ WhyteJigsaw](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Whytejigsaw/pseuds/Whytejigsaw) for the help with affectionate Irish insults.


	5. Chapter 5

_1978_

Of course Molly knew who Irene Adler was.  She read the papers, after all.  All of those scandals...

She wouldn't have recognized the dominatrix, though, if the name hadn't been on the paperwork.  The corpse on her slab had her face bashed in so badly as to be absolutely unrecognizable.  But that's who Sherlock confirmed this woman to be.  He'd recognized her by...not her face.  By her creamy skin, her gently sloping hips, her perfectly round and well-proportioned breasts.

The Woman had clearly had nothing to compensate for.

_And now I'm jealous of a corpse.  Brilliant._

Sherlock and his brother were standing out in the hallway - _smoking, for God's sake_ _-_ and Sherlock looked devastated.  He must have really cared about this woman.  _The_ Woman.  God, how long had he known her?  How had they even met?  Was she a client?  Or...was _he_ a client of _hers_?

Molly wanted nothing more in that moment than to go up to her office and _sit_ for a moment, to let herself fall apart and then pull herself back together.  But she _couldn't_ , not with Sherlock and Mycroft right outside the door in the hallway.  She knew that if she looked at Sherlock right now, she'd cry, and that was something she'd never allowed herself to do in front of him.

But _oh_ , did she need a good cry right now.  It was bad enough to be humiliated by him in front of all of their common acquaintances.  It was bad enough to have her attempts to impress him dismissed like they were nothing, while at the same time having her feelings exposed like a raw, open wound.  It was bad enough that everyone now felt _sorry_ for her.

But to be called in to work, on Christmas, so that he could identify a woman - _The Woman,_ the infamous dominatrix - by _not her face_ , that was too much.

Because it meant that he wasn't disinterested in women altogether, it meant that he was disinterested in _her_.  And that made her feel all the more humiliated.

It was foolish, so foolish of her to even dream that he might someday love her, when there were women like Irene Adler in this world.

Molly looked out the window and saw that the hallway was finally empty.  She didn't think she could make it all the way to her office, so she went into the ladies' instead.  Molly cast an imperturbable charm on the bathroom stall before finally allowing herself to cry.

 

* * *

 

 

_1968, Fall  
_

Molly was already at their table when Will entered the library.  He could see her from the door, three textbooks open on the table in front of her, head tilted back and resting on the back of her chair, eyes closed.  A smile was on her face, and part of him wanted to delve into her mind to find out what it was that was making her so happy, but even he knew that would be crossing a line.

He stood, staring, for probably a bit too long, and eventually she opened her eyes.

"Will!  I was wondering when you were going to get here.  What do you want to study today?  We could continue with chemistry, I'm not sure I really have the hang of all the kinds of cyclic compounds, or we could go back to geometry, it's been a while since we worked on those formulas..."

"Literature," Will declared, placing a large book on the table in front of Molly with a flourish and dropping dramatically into his usual chair.

"The Complete Works of William Shakespeare?"  Molly eagerly opened the book and began flipping through the pages, a reverent look on her face.

"The foundation of much of Western Muggle Culture.  Important to know if one is to have a complete understanding of the muggle way of life, is it not?"

Molly looked up at Will with a twinkle in her eyes and a smirk on her lips.  "Understanding the muggle way of life?  I thought you just wanted to learn the academics."

Will shrugged and looked away.  "Sociology is an academic subject, is it not?"

"So it's sociology now?  I thought we were doing literature today?"

Will blushed a little.  How did she always manage to put him on the back foot like that?  "Don't make jokes, Molly."

Molly smiled and turned her attention back to the book.  "Which play would you like to study?"

"I thought I'd let you choose."

"Is it okay if I take a minute to look through this and decide?"

"Of course, take your time.  But do hurry."

Molly rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she flipped through the pages.  "Have you read any of these before?"

"Not that I can remember."

To tell the truth, Will _did_ remember reading from a similar volume when he was a child, but he didn't want Molly to know that.  If she knew that he'd been reading muggle books, and studying muggle subjects, for his entire life, then his whole reason for studying with her would be shown for the pretense it was.

Will didn't know why he had asked Molly to teach him about muggle academic subjects.  He was perfectly capable of learning on his own.  His father, and then his older brother, worked as magical liaisons embedded within the muggle government, and as such, knowledge of muggle studies was necessary.  The Holmes family library was filled with volumes on chemistry, physics, mathematics, literature, philosophy...

So he didn't _need_ to study with Molly Hooper.

He simply found that he _wanted_ to.

It was nothing that he could ever put into words; it's actually quite possible that the words didn't even exist.  He lived, had always lived, in a world of magical things; of spells and miracles made read every day, yet there was nothing, nothing at all in existence to compare with the effect that Molly Hooper had on him.

It was distracting, that's what it was.

And someday, possibly someday soon, Molly was going to find a boyfriend who _wasn't_ beneath her, who _was_ worth her time, who he _couldn't_ deduce into a pile of dust, all in the name of "saving her the time".  Someday she was going to find someone worthy of her, and they were going to fall in love, and he was going to lose her...her friendship.

Luckily, it hadn't happened yet.  So far she'd exhibited an absolutely atrocious taste in boyfriends.  The habitual cheater, the pornography smuggler, the would-be drug dealer...she deserved better than that.  _She deserves better than you, too_ , the Mycroft-voice taunted him.

 _Of course she does_ , Will thought emphatically.  _Don't you think I know that?  Why else would I keep stopping myself from..._

From what, exactly?  Holding her hand?  Pulling her onto his lap like all the other idiots did with their...ugh, _girlfriends_?  Smelling her hair?

Kissing her?

For too long, Will had been fighting to ignore the simple fact that he was a teenaged boy, with the same hormonally-driven urges that any and every simple-minded dolt struggled with.  He should be better than that.  Stupid bloody hormones.  He just had to hold out a while longer, just a few more years, and it would all level out and he could get back to _thinking straight_.  Cold, hard reason; none of this wishing that he could let his guard down and touch and be touched and feel _wanted_ and _loved_ , and...

 _No.  Unthinkable_.  It wouldn't do to dwell on such thoughts.  Not about Molly.  He was nothing like the boys that she dated, they were all blonde and solid and athletic, and he was dark and gangly and bookish.

Not to mention, she seemed to be dead set on fixing him up with someone that wasn't her.

"Emmeline is staring at you again."

"She's welcome to."

"You really don't care?"

"Not one bit."

"How about Libby?"

"From Potions?"

"Yeah, she seems nice."

"Molly, what exactly about me makes you think that I'd be interested in 'nice'?"

She looked sad for a moment, before forcing a smile back onto her face.  "No, I suppose you're right."

He didn't know what exactly about that had hurt her feelings, but he thought it was best to move on.  "Have you picked a play yet?"

"Oh!  Yes.  Romeo and Juliet."

"The one about the star-crossed lovers?"

"Ah-hah!  So you have read it."

"Probably.  At some point."

"One of these days I'm going to get you to tell me why there's Shakespeare in a pureblood family's library."

"Perhaps."

"But yeah, the one about the star-crossed lovers."

"Tedious."

"There's more to it than that, though.  I think the real underlying theme is generational strife."

"Deny thy father and refuse thy name."  He should have known.  A cursory evaluation of Molly Hooper indicated that she was a standard "hopeless romantic", but there really was so much more to her than that.  Of _course_ she could pick out the underlying themes from the world's most infamous tragic love story.

"Exactly."  She smiled.

"Then why not Hamlet?  Same theme, without all the mushy stuff."  Honestly he didn't think he could survive reading about hormone-addled teenagers with Molly, in his hormone-addled teenage state.

"You asked which one I wanted.  This is what I want."

He sighed.  Why did she have to be so _stubborn_?  It was adorable.  "Alright then.  Shall we?  Act I, Scene 1..."

 

* * *

 

 

_1996, Winter_

Hermione missed her mum.

She missed her dad, too, obviously; his moods, his violin, his hugs.  But right now, she needed to talk to her mum.

She was starting to seriously regret wiping their memories and sending them to Australia.  It had seemed  like the best option - the only option - at the time, but right now she just felt like a lost, lonely little girl, and she wanted her Mummy.

It was a rash, stupid decision, sending them away; and she'd been making rash, stupid decisions ever since.  Siccing a flock of conjured birds on Ron?  Just because she was _jealous_?  _Come on, Hermione, you're better than that_.

Okay, sure, she'd thought they were going to Slughorn's Christmas party together.  But they hadn't explicitly stated that it was a _date_ , had they?  _Stupid, stu_ _pid, stupid_.  You can't just assume that everyone is one the same page.  Because, obviously, they hadn't been.  She'd thought that Ron liked her, too, as more than a friend.  She was wrong.

And when there were girls like Violet Brown around, girls who knew what to say and how to act and how to get their damn hair under control, why would anyone, anyone at all, spare a second look at bookish, bossy Hermione Granger?

 _No_ , she reprimanded herself.  _That is not your name.  Nobody else knows it, but you do, and you mustn't ever forget it.  You mustn't forget who you are._

And her family doesn't make ridiculous mistakes because they're distracted by sentiment.  _Feeling_ emotions is one thing, letting them take over is another.  Never let your heart rule your head.

It was particularly stupid to let her growing feelings for Ron cause problems like this.  Ron was her friend, just a friend, and to explore the idea of anything more was just begging for trouble.  What if it didn't work out?  What if it all came crashing down, bringing their friendship with it?  And it wasn't just _their_ friendship at stake, either, it was all three of them.  They functioned as a unit.  To lose Ron would be to lose Harry as well, and as he was the closest thing to a brother she'd ever had or likely would ever have...well, risking that simply wasn't an option.  Maybe Ron's oblivious rejection of her was all for the best, after all.

Hermione wiped her eyes and smoothed her hair back into a new ponytail.  She had to get back through the Commmon Room into the dormitory, and close the curtains around her bed, before Lavender came back.  A silencing charm was definitely going to be in order tonight; she couldn't bear the idea of listening to Lavender and Parvati's tittering gossip.

 

* * *

 

 

Christmas was going to be a problem this year.

Last year she'd stayed at Grimmauld Place with Harry and the Weasleys, but that simply was not an option this year.  Ginny had invited her to come to the Burrow, of course, but she'd had to say no.  With things the way they were with Ron, it would have made for a very unpleasant holiday for everyone.

She briefly considered taking a room at the Leaky Cauldron, or somewhere in Hogsmeade, but that carried an unacceptable risk of someone from Hogwarts finding out that she was alone.  Staying at Hogwarts was an option, of course, but it was likely to raise questions as to why she was spending the holidays away from her parents, _again_.

In the end, she decided to do what Viktor had been begging her to do in all of his letters for the last two years: she agreed to spend the holidays with him in Bulgaria.  He made it sound so lovely there, and a White Christmas was practically guaranteed.  And she couldn't deny that it would be nice to feel _wanted_ for a while.  Why had she been pining after a freckly red-headed _git_ all year, when a truly lovely, sweet, attentive, _world famous Quidditch player_ had been practically falling all over hiself to get her to spend time with him?

It made her feel a bit like she was taking advantage, but needs must.  She needed someplace to go, and Viktor had literally begged her to come.

So she did.

 

* * *

 

 

It was easy, it turned out, to fall straight into Viktor's arms the moment the portkey dropped her in Bulgaria.  It was easy, it turned out, to let him kiss her.  It was easy, it turned out, to kiss him back.  It was easy to spend quiet evenings cuddled up under blankets by the fire; it was easy to spend mornings watching the sun rise over the snowy mountains with Viktor's arm around her shoulder; it was easy to sit on his lap and let him nuzzle the side of her neck.

It was strange to think that someone who was close to her own age owned his own home, but considering that Viktor had been a professional Quidditch player for several years now she shouldn't have been surprised.  It was a lovely cottage in the woods on the side of a mountain.  They spent long hours cuddled up by the fire, Hermione reading a book or doing schoolwork, Viktor polishing his racing broom, or reading, or simply holding her.  It was quiet, with just the two of them there.  Viktor was a surprisingly good cook, and they baked together - mince pies and trifle and jam-filled biscuits that Hermione had always called jammie dodgers, but Viktor called maslenki.

He looked so darn _adorable_ , all covered in flour, that Hermione couldn't resist kissing him on the nose.

His arms went around her waist and he leaned his forehead against hers.  "We will have to see my parents tomorrow.  They have invited us to Christmas dinner."

"Of course, Viktor."

"You are nervous?  I can tell because your voice gets high."

"Do you think they'll like me?"

"They would be fools not to."

Hermione tried not to worry.

 

* * *

 

 

Dinner wasn't a particularly comfortable affair.  The Krums owned several house-elves, which was one strike against them as far as Hermione was concerned, but she held her tongue for the sake of diplomacy.  She wanted them to like her, after all.

She used as many Bulgarian phrases as she could remember, which they seemed to appreciate.

Things fell apart, however, during the second course.

"Tell me, what do your parents do?"

The old, familiar lie rose easily to her lips.  "They're dentists.  They see to people's teeth."  She hadn't realized that dentistry simply wasn't a thing in the wizarding world, when she'd come up with that.  But it was still less unusual than telling the truth - that her mum cut up dead bodies to determine how they'd died, and her dad used to be a detective, but had stayed home to raise her, spending the afternoons doing chemistry experiments in the kitchen.

"They are...muggles?"

Hermione opened her mouth to answer and wished that once, just once, she could tell the truth.  She _tried_ to tell the truth, to say, "No, in fact my father is a member of one of the oldest pureblood families in England, with ties to some very old families in France as well."  But the breath was sucked back into her lungs as soon as it reached her lips, and she felt the familiar choking, suffocating sensation that had always come along with trying to defy the charm.

So she answered the only way she could.  "Yes, yes they are."

Mrs. Krum put down her knife and fork.  Mr. Krum glared at his son.  Viktor glared back.

"That is very open-minded of you, Viktor," Mrs. Krum said diplomatically.  Hermione tried not to be insulted.

Mr. Krum started speaking in Bulgarian, then, his eyes fixed on Viktor, quiet fury building behind the words that Hermione could only partially understand.  She thought she picked out "mistake" and "allow" and "Quidditch", and she knew she heard "Hogwarts" and "tournament".

"It is fortunate, then," Viktor said slowly, "that I am of age and no longer under any obligation to obey you."  He stood then, folding his napkin and placing it on the table.  "Thank you for dinner, Maĭka, but we must go now."  He held out a hand to Hermione, and she took it, allowing him to help her up.  Gripping his hand tightly, she let him lead her out of the dining room, while his parents stared after them.

 

* * *

 

 

"Well, that didn't go particularly well, did it."  Hermione tried to keep her voice cheerful, tried to downplay the absolute disaster of a dinner.

A blast of snowflakes swirled inside as Viktor opened the door and they rushed inside.  "I do not care.  They are..."  He struggled to find the right word.  His English was much better than it had been two years ago - he'd even learned to pronounce her name properly - but it wasn't his first language, after all.

"Old fashioned?"   Hermione suggested as she unwrapped her scarf from around her neck.  "Closed-minded?"

"Bigots."

Hermione stopped and stared.  "That's a very strong word, Viktor."

Viktor didn't look up as he hung up his cloak and stooped to remove his boots.  "I do not care if you are not pureblood.  I do not think it matters."

"But Viktor, I _am_ \- " her breath quite literally caught in her throat as she choked on the words she wanted to say.  Tears filled her eyes and she actually stamped her foot in frustration, letting out a strangled cry.  Viktor straightened and crossed the hallway to her in two strides, grasping her by the shoulders and ducking his head to catch her gaze.

"It is alright, you can tell me."

"No, I _can't_.  I want to but _I can't_."

Viktor wrapped his arms around her, surrounded her with his warmth, his strength, his _love_ , as she cried. 

"I'm not worth it, Viktor.  I'm not worth making your parents hate you."

"They are my parents, but they are not good people.  I do not wish to be like them."

"Not for me, Viktor.  Not for me.  I'm not worth it.  I'm not worth it."

"I wonder, if those words mean the same thing to me as they do to you.  Because to me, you are worth a great many things."

Hermione sniffled.  "I'm sorry, I'm being so silly."

"You are not silly at all.  Here, let me help you."  Viktor gently removed Hermione's hat, and her cloak, and he knelt down to remove her boots.  Then he stood and, taking her hand, led her into the kitchen, where he sat her down and set about making sandwiches.

"Viktor, stop, you don't have to do that."

"Of course I do.  We left without eating much of anything."

"It's okay, I've rather lost my appetite."

"No.  You must eat.  You are always forgetting to eat, so busy with your studying.  I promised myself that you would not skip a meal while you are with me."  He placed a plate on the table in front of her: a turkey sandwich, apple slices, two biscuits.  

She smiled.  "Thank you, Viktor."

A comfortable silence fell as they ate.  They didn't speak again until they were almost done drying the dishes.

"I remember the first time I saw you."

She smiled, remembering.  "When you arrived at Hogwarts?"

"No.  At the World Cup.  You were in the top box."

Hermione was stunned.  "I was.  I'd no idea you'd noticed me."

"I always noticed you."

Hermione looked down at the towel in her hands.  "I don't understand what you think is so special about me."

"Everything."

She looked up, and he had moved so close, he was right there, and it was nothing at all to rach her face up and kiss him.

It was a soft kiss, a kiss of gratitude and affection and sweetness, and then a switch was flipped and it suddenly turned fast and deep and heated.  The next thing Hermione knew, she was backed against the counter, and Viktor was raining kisses across her cheekbone to her ear, and down her neck to her collarbone.

"You were so young when I met you," he breathed against her skin.  "But you are not so young now."

She wasn't.  She wasn't a child anymore, and Viktor made her _feel_ like the woman she knew she was.  Her hands grasped at his back, his shirt bunching up in her fists.  She had never heart a sound like the one that escaped her when his teeth scraped against her pulse point. 

His hands were under her jumper, gliding up her sides from her hips to her ribcage, and her back was arching and her head was tilting back, and his mouth was on her neck while his hands were on her breasts.  Her hands were moving lower now, her fingertips sliding under his waistband, her nails digging into the firm muscles she found there.

She started to slide her hands around to the sides, to his hips, and he stopped kissing the top of her chest and looked up.  Their eyes met, and time stopped.  Hermione felt bold like she never had before.  Powerful  She raised one eyebrow and continued her hands' journey around his body from his hips to the taut muscles of his abdomen, and she pushed her hands lower, until she felt the beginnings of coarse curly hair against her fingertips.

At that moment, Viktor pounced, surging up to kiss her, and he pulled her arms up and out of his trousers, and wrapped them around his neck.  He scooped her up with one arm under her knees and one around her back, and carried her to his bedroom.

She bounced when he tossed her onto the bed, and he was unbuttoning his shirt as he climbed on top of her.  She reached up to push it off of his shoulders, and he ran a hand up her thigh, pushing her skirt up as he went.  Soon his hand was on her hip, and her skirt was around her waist, and she had _never_ done anything like this, but she _didn't care_ , because _this felt so good_.

Everywhere that Viktor touched, he left behind shimmering tingles of pleasure.  Everywhere he kissed, he left her skin damp and shivering in the cool air, so much colder than the heat of his mouth.  He was whispering words she only half-understood - _krasiva si,  blestite kato slŭntseto_ \- and their clothes were on the floor, and her hand was gripping the headboard, and she had never, ever felt so free.

Eyes closed, mouths just barely touching, sharing each other's air, they moved together to a rhythm that felt as natural as her heartbeat, as new as the words he was moaning that she didn't understand.  Chest to chest, skin to skin, feet planted on the bed and hips rising to meet his, her back arched and her voice wailed and her world exploded.

They collapsed together, tangled and sweaty and panting.  He drew her close, placing kisses everywhere his mouth could reach, and she held him to her, and smiled.

 

* * *

 

 

"Don't go back.  Stay here with me."

They were spooned together under the covers, his arm curled over her waist.  Her thumb brushed lightly back and forth across his hand, resting lightly on her breast.

"And what, drop out of school?  You know me, Viktor, you know I can't do that."

"Then come back at the end of the term.  Spend the summer with me.  And then come back again next summer, and stay."

"I can't make that kind of promise, Viktor.  With everything that's going on..."

"Exactly."  He kissed the spot where her neck met her shoulder.  "You are not safe there.  You could come here, be with me.  I could keep you safe."

Safe.  In another country, far from Voldemort and the Death Eaters.  That's what she'd done for her parents.  And Viktor was offering that to her.

"I can't.  I'm needed."

"Needed?  You are barely of age.  What can you be expected to do?"

She rolled over, under his arm, to face him.  "You think I'm old enough to drop out of school and run away with you."

"It is not a young person's war, Hermione."

"Of course it is, Viktor.  Harry's been in it since he was a year old.  And it's...it's my job to help him."

"It can't always be about Harry Potter.  Someday you're going to have to take care of you."

"I know that.  But that day isn't today.  Look, let's not talk about this just now.  Let's just enjoy this, okay?"

"Okay."  He pulled her closer, and she rested her head against his chest.  His lips brushed her hair, and she closed her eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Viktor fell asleep before she did.

She felt a bit ashamed to feel relieved when he rolled away from her in his sleep.  It had felt so nice, at first, to lay in his arms, enveloped in his strength and his warmth.  But as she laid there, listening to him breathe, wide awake and staring, unfocused, into the darkness, the safety she'd felt within the circle of his arms started to feel stifling.  They'd slept cuddled together every night since she'd arrived, but it felt different, this time.

She wondered if she'd let this go too far.

It had been so easy to get swept up in it all, in the rosy domesticity of her time here with him.  He made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world, like an exotic, transcendent creature made to be worshiped.  And that...was beyond description. 

And she loved Viktor, too.  She did.  But he loved her more, and they weren't on equal footing, not on the same page.  It wasn't fair, to either of them.  He wanted her to come here and live with him.  Did he really expect her to abandon her friends when they needed her most?  It was unthinkable.  The fact that he'd suggested dropping out of school, she firmly decided not to even acknowledge.

And it just felt _wrong_ , in a way she couldn't quite articulate to herself, to make that kind of commitment to someone who didn't know the truth about her.  He was willing to become estranged from his family for her sake, because she was muggle-born, _except she wasn't_.  And she couldn't even tell him.  She might not _ever_ be able to tell him.

No, this wasn't fair to him at all.  She'd definitely let his go too far.

She laid awake for the rest of the night, figuring out exactly what to say to him in the morning.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't speak Bulgarian, but according to Google translate:  
>   
>  _Maĭka_ = mother  
>  _krasiva si, blestite kato slŭntseto_ = you are so beautiful, you shine like the sun  
> 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a few different proposed timelines for Series 1-2; I'm going with the one that places Reichenbach in November.

_1978, November_

Molly had never needed legilimency to read him.

It made it so much harder to keep her at arm's length when she was so bloody _perfect_.

He thought he'd been playing his part perfectly, putting up a front that John simply couldn't see through.  But Molly...Molly saw through all of the layers of deception and role-playing, and just saw _him._ She knew he was sad, she knew he was scared, and she knew that he needed help.

He didn't want to bring her into this.  It could put her in considerable danger.  But he found that, not only did he _need_ her help, he actually _wanted_ it.  It was hard to be alone all the time.  And Molly's knowledge, Molly's dedication, Molly's focus, and most importantly, Molly's _compassion_ , were things that he desperately missed, and badly wanted to have in his corner right now.

So when she asked, "What do you need?"

It was the most natural thing in the world to answer, "You."

 

* * *

 

 

"It's a shame polyjuice potion doesn't work on corpses," Molly said wistfully, poring over the records of all the corpses currently in cold storage.

"Even if it did, we don't have time to brew it."

"You mean to tell me that you don't keep some around, in case you need to go undercover?"

"I used to.  Used up the last of it about a month before John moved in.  Couldn't keep using it with him around, so I never bothered to make any more."

"This one is the same height as you, but weighs about two stone more."

"Keep looking."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

He went into his Mind Palace, as he'd been doing for brief stints all night.  From the small, rapid motions of his head, and of his eyes behind his eyelids, Molly guessed that he was going over the plan yet again.  She was proven right when he suddenly opened his eyes and started talking mid-sentence.

"...but of course you'll have to release the disillusionment charm as well as the hover charm at the precise moment I apparate away, if John is to believe that it's really me hitting the pavement."

Molly put down the file she was reading with a sigh.  "Is it really necessary to fool John, though?"

"Of course it is.  If he believes it, that will sell it for everyone else."

"But there must be some other way to defeat Moriarty, some way that wouldn't ruin your reputation..."

"Of course there is, but this way kills two birds with one stone, don't you see?

"See _what_ , Sherlock?"

"If the muggle world believes all the lies that Moriarty has spread about me, then it won't take much to make the wizarding world believe it, too."

"...and?"

" _And_ , if the wizarding world thinks I've been running an elaborate hoax, stealing from and kidnapping and killing muggles, all for my own entertainment..."

"They'll think you're on Voldemort's side!"

" _Exactly_."

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, EXACTLY?? Are you actually planning on...on...."

"Infiltrating the Death Eaters, yes.  Of course.  Good to see you've finally caught on."

Molly ignored the jab, she was too danm shocked; shocked and worried.  " _Do you have any idea how dangerous that is..._ "

"Of _course_ I do, Molly, but it needs to be done."

"I'd think that Dumbledore would already have a man on the inside."

"Most likely.  At least one.  But Mycroft wants an inside man of his own, since nobody seems to care how any of it is affecting the muggles.  Oh, they care in an abstract kind of way, they condemn muggle-baiting and random killings of muggles, but they're not doing much to actually _protect_ them.  They've barely told the muggle government anything at all; no in the muggle world is fully aware of the extent of the threat."

"Except for Mycroft."

He shook his head.  "He only knows as much as he's being told, which isn't nearly enough, especially now that he suspects the Ministry's been infiltrated.  He needs information - pure, unfiltered information - if he's to do his job properly."

"So he's sending you into danger."

Sherlock shrugged.  "There really isn't anyone else who could do it."

Molly fixed him with a level stare.  "I'll never forgive him, if you don't come back."

"Somehow I don't think he'll be bothered much by that."

"And what about John?  This is going to break him."

Sherlock's voice was soft as he spoke to the floor.  "He's strong.  He'll put himself back together."

 

* * *

 

 

Molly took a deep breath as she opened the door to her flat.  She didn't know what she expected to find, but she knew that she would need strength to face it, whatever it was.

The bed in the guest room was broken, the frame of the mattress snapped in half.  Sherlock must have hit harder than either of them were expecting, and for him not to have fixed it...

Molly ran into her bedroom, where Sherlock was curled on his side, fast asleep.  He looked so peaceful that she almost didn't want to wake him...but she thought of the state of his landing place and knew she had to make sure he was okay.

Gently, Molly brushed the hair back from his forehead as she knelt on the floor beside the bed.  "Sherlock?"

Sherlock breathed deeply as he slowly returned to consciousness.  His eyes opened halfway.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?"

"I just died."  Molly's breath caught at the break in his voice.  "I just died, and it broke him, and no, I'm not alright."  A single tear rolled down his cheek and landed on her pillow, a small wet spot forming next to his jaw.

"Oh, Sherlock."  Molly cupped his cheek with one hand, the other one running through his curls, coming to a rest on the back of his head.  "You're alive."  She rested her forehead against his, her eyes boring into his.  "You're alive, and you're here, and I'm here with you, and you're going to be okay."

Sherlock's eyes closed, and the tears fell.

 

* * *

 

 

"I'll have to leave soon."

Sherlock had been staying at Molly's flat for nearly two weeks now.  He left during the day, carefully making connections with the "right" people - and by "right", he really meant _wrong_ , but those were the people he had to get in with, now.  He'd been coming back and sleeping in her bed every night, his head pillowed on her shoulder, long limbs wrapped around her like a limpet while she stroked his hair.  She suspected that it made him feel safe, sleeping with her, but she didn't dare question it.  It felt so tenuous, so evanescent, like one wrong word would pop the bubble and this newfound closeness would disappear forever.

"Where will you go?"

"I've taken a flat over a shop in Knockturn Alley."

Molly suppressed a shudder, but just barely.  "That's horrible."

"It's necessary."

Of course it was, Molly knew that.  But she wished it wasn't, and she didn't like to think about it.

"Will you be able to come back and see me, at all?"

Sherlock sighed.  "The protective charms I've placed on your flat will prevent me from entering, after a certain point."

"Why would you...?"

"Lock myself out?  Because it isn't just me.  It's anyone with a Dark Mark."

The reality of just what it was he was about to do settled like a lead weight in her stomach.  Gently, reverently, her fingertips stroked the skin of his forearm, pale and scarred but unmarked.  For now.  "When you're done, then.  When it's over, then you'll come back, and you'll tell everyone you aren't really dead, and it will all be over, and go back to normal."

Sherlock looked at her, then.  "I hope so."

 

* * *

 

 

Molly was half asleep on the couch, watching the lights twinkling on her tree, when she heard it.

 _Pop_.  "Molly."

Molly sat up and looked over her shoulder at the man who stood, windswept and heartbreakingly gorgeous, in the doorway to her kitchen.  She hadn't seen him for more than two weeks.  He'd told her, the last time he was here, that further contact between them would put them both in danger.  But here he was.

"Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

As he walked around to the front of the sofa, Sherlock gave a nonchalant shrug that didn't quite ring true.  "It's Christmas."

Molly held out her hand, and he took it, allowing her to draw him in closer, until he was bare inches away and sank to his knees in front of her.  Up close, she could see what she had suspected she might; he was lonely, and scared.

She placed her hand no his cheek; he closed his eyes and leaned into it.

"You wanted to spend Christmas with me?"

"There's no one I'd rather be with."

"You mean there's no one else you _can_ be with."

His eyes opened and met hers; they were very, very blue.  "No, I meant what I said."

"I'm glad you're here.  I've missed you."

"I've missed you too."

Those four simple words were a stunning admission, coming from Sherlock.  They meant sentiment, they meant vulnerability, they meant attachment.

"Come, get up off the floor and sit with me."  She all but dragged him up onto the sofa. and he stretched out with his head on her lap.  Her hands found their way into his hair.  Her hands always seemed to find their way there, lately.  She suspected that it soothed him as much as it calmed her.

Molly closed her eyes and focused on the sensation of her fingers gliding through the silky strands.  There was something downright sensual about that man's hair.  She wondered if he liked having it pulled; he did seem to have rather sensitive follicles.

She blushed at the turn her thoughts were taking.  She usually managed to keep herself under control, when he was around.  It wouldn't do to let him see the things she thought about him.  Not that she was really important enough to bother reading, really.  Was she?

"I've often wondered, Sherlock."

"Hmm?"

"How often do you use your legilimency in your work?"

"Hardly ever.  It isn't necessary, and it would be cheating."

"Do you use it in your personal life?"

"I don't have a personal life."

"You know what I mean, Sherlock.  On John, Lestrade...me?"

His eyes opened and met hers.  "I'd never.  I would never do that to you."

"Because of some sense of decency?  Or because you're afraid of what you'd see?"

He sprang to his feet and started pacing, suddenly agitated, like a switch had been flipped.  Like he had suddenly remembered who he was, and how Sherlock Holmes was meant to behave.  "I _know_ what I'd see.  And it would be so lovely, so tempting, and I'd give in, and...and then it would be over and I'd lose you."

"Sherlock, why do you think you'd lose me?  I -"

"I can feel it, radiating off of you in waves.  The _want_.  I can't block it out.  It's always been there, I just didn't realize it was directed at _me_ , until..."

"Until what, Sherlock?"

He sighed, and stopped pacing, running a hand through his hair.  "It's not important."

Molly didn't agree, but she decided to let it go, for now.  "So if you know I want you, that I've always done, then _why_ do you think you'd lose me?"

"Victor wanted me.  That didn't stop him tossing me aside once he'd had me."

Those two sentences filled a million gaps in her understanding of what had happened all those years ago.  It explained so much, and her heart ached for him.  "You think I'd leave you?  Oh, Will..."  He turned his head as if the name pained him.  "I'd never, never."  He was shaking his head, his eyes squeezed shut, as if he could make the things he was feeling go away if he denied them vehemently enough.  He'd been doing that all his life, Molly knew, and it wasn't working anymore.  She stood and approached him carefully, like he was an animal she was afraid of spooking.

"I don't just _want_ you.  I _love_ you.  And I don't just love Sherlock Holmes, the World's Only Consulting Detective.  I love William Holmes, the loner Ravenclaw, who had to be reminded to eat, who studied calculus for fun, and memorized Shakespearean soliloquies so he could recite them for me.  My friend, Will, with the otter patronus, and his tie in his pocket, who I missed every day for seven and a half years, and worried about, and prayed that he was alive, and alright.

"I _know_ you, Will.  I've been on the receiving end of your deductions, and your moods, and _I don't care_.  I love you _because_ of who you are, not in spite of it.  And nothing, _nothing_ you could ever say or do, will ever make me stop loving you.  I promise."

"You say that now, but sooner or later...most likely sooner...you'll realize what a horrible mistake you've made by loving me, and you'll leave."

"God, Vic really did a number on you, didn't he?"

"He didn't mean to.  I think...I think that I hurt him just as badly as he hurt me."

"Even so.  That must have been so hard to deal with, all alone."

"It was."

Molly's heart ached as she thought of her two closest friends, spending their entire last term at Hogwarts avoiding each other, trying to _forget_ each other.  She thought back on everything she knew, or thought she knew, about Victor Trevor; she let the new bits of information slot into place like puzzle pieces, and things finally, after all these years, started to make sense.

"Did you love him?"

"No?  Yes?  Maybe?  I don't know.  I've never known how to...interpret...emotions.  I think...I think I loved how he made me feel.  How he felt about me."

"Is that what you like about me?  That I make you feel...loved?"

"No.  I mean, yes, but that's not the whole of it."

Molly took a deep breath.  "Do you love me?"

"I think that I do."

Molly knew how significant this admission was.  Not just that he had feelings for her, but that he didn't know for sure, didn't understand, didn't have any definite answers.  It made him feel devastatingly vulnerable, she knew, to lay himself bare like that.

He was still looking at the floor.  She touched his cheek, stooped her head to catch his eye.  "I know that I love you."

"I still don't think that I deserve you."  He looked so, so very young.

"I still don't care."

And their lips finally met.

 

* * *

 

 

Making love to Sherlock Holmes was nothing like Molly had expected.

She had always imagined that, if it ever happened, it would be a thing of passion; hard and fast and overwhelming - a flood of desire finally breaching the walls of his self-control.  It wasn't like that at all.

The way his hands skimmed over her skin, the way his lips traced the curve of her throat, the slow, gentle pace he set...all spoke of the need for an emotional release more than a physical one.  It was so tender, so...sweet, that Molly's heart felt it would burst in her chest.  This, this was what she had always wanted but never dared to hope for.  Molly wanted to believe that she could spend the rest of her life feeling like this.

But it was too perfect, too pure.  The reverence in his touch, the tears that threatened - this was not a promise of intimacies to come; not the commencement of a glorious, rosy future.

This was a goodbye.

It made sense - his affectionate behavior, his highly unusual openness, his willingness to be vulnerable.  He only felt like he could do it now, because he didn't think he was ever going to see her again.  It was safe to open himself up to her, because she couldn't leave him if he left first.  He didn't think he was going to survive the mission.  He thought he was going to die.

The sting of it mingled with the ecstasy of his touch until she could no longer keep them separate, until she couldn't tell whether the ache she felt was pleasure or pain.  It grew and swelled until she felt so full with it that she was sure she would burst, and then, she did.

She wanted to cry out his name but didn't know which one to use, so instead she let out a wordless moan that rose in pitch and intensity until it broke, shattering, like her heart.

 

* * *

 

 

_1968, Christmas_

Everything was hazy and warm.

Will was sprawled across the length of the sofa, his feet up on the armrest.  Vic was on the floor with his back to the sofa, his feet stretched out towards the fire - his feet were always cold - and a book in his hands.  Such a Ravenclaw thing to do, that - drunk on smuggled firewhiskey, with the whole of Ravenclaw Tower to themselves, and Victor was reading a book.  It made Will smile.

It was quiet, with just the two of them there.  Will was fiddling with a gift he'd been sent by his brother - meditation balls, two small, heavy balls that jingled when they moved.  The point was to rotate them around each other in one's hand, without letting them touch.  Victor turned his head and watched as Will's long fingers manipulated them expertly, then closed his book with a sigh.

"I can't _focus_ with that insectant...incessssssant tinkling right next to my head, Will."

"You sure it isn't the half a bobble of Firewhishkey you drank?"

Vic turned his head towards the empty bottle lying on its side next to a bag from Honeydukes and a pile of empty candy wrappers.  A brilliant idea, really, transfiguring a bottle of Firewhiskey into a package of licorice wands.  He told Will so.

"Of coursh...of _coursssse_ it was Vic.  'M always brilliant."

Vic tried to hold back a laugh but it spluttered out quite against his will.  "And so very humble."

"You know my methods, Vic."

" _Methods_."  He snorted.  "God, Will, you're so..."  Vic's voice trailed off.

Will smiled a little, and chuckled sloppily.  He felt so warm and soft and... _happy_...that he closed his eyes and allowed himself to just _be_.

And then a picture floated into his head, from outside of himself.  Of...himself.  His lips, his hands, his... _hair?_   Hands in his hair...

 _Victor's hands in his hair_.

He was seeing Victor's thoughts, and Victor...wanted him.

Of course...of course...how could he have never seen it before...?  It wasn't Molly that Victor fancied. Victor wanted _him_.

And then all of the longing he'd been suppressing, the ache, the hunger, to be _touched_ , to be _held_ , to be... _loved_...expanded in his chest until he felt he could no longer breathe.

The meditation balls clacked together and rang.  Will put them down.

Will sat up and slipped onto the floor next to Victor.  He felt an overwhelming rush of... _affection_ , and rested his head on Vic's shoulder.  The image that filled his head made his heart pound and his breath catch.

Then he turned his head and did what Vic wanted him to do.

 

* * *

 

 

His head ached.

Will woke in his bed, feeling warmer than usual considering the time of year and the fact that he'd forgotten to close the curtains around his bed.  A ray of sunlight peeking through the window was shining directly into his eyes, so he rolled over before opening them.

Victor's face was inches from his, peaceful and terrifyingly contented.

 _Oh_.

The memories slowly started to come into focus, memories of hands and mouths and skin and hair and teeth and lips.  He couldn't believe that he had actually _done_ all that.  With Victor.  _He'd done that with Victor._

Will slipped out of bed, careful not to wake the happily dreaming Victor, and left.

 

* * *

 

 

Victor found him, later, sitting at the Ravenclaw table in the Great Hall, pushing food around on his plate. 

"Good morning, sunshine.  I'm starving, worked up quite an appetite last night."  He winked as he sat down and began loading food on his plate.

Will didn't look up.  "Right.  Yeah."

Victor turned to him and looked him up and down. "Will, you alright?  You look shook."

"Yeah, I just, um, I don't do things like...that."

Victor laughed.  "I beg to differ, 'cos you most certainly did, which means you do."

Will sighed in frustration.  "I mean, losing control of myself - " Vic snorted " - letting hormones and alcohol override logic and reason..."

"Hormones."  Victor's voice was suddenly flat, expressionless.

"I mean, I suppose it is useful, to know what it's like.  Lots of sensory information to process..." He trailed off, gesturing vaguely.

There was a long pause while Victor slowly put down his fork.  "Like an experiment."

Will sighed as relief flooded through him.  "Yes!  Exactly.  I'm so glad you understand."

"Yes, I think I do."  Victor's voice was _so_ flat, _so_...dead...that Will finally looked up from the food he had no intention of actually eating.  Vic's face had gone as blank as his voice.

The relief that Will had felt for that one brief moment was receding, leaving behind terrified apprehension.  "Vic, it's alright, isn't it?  We're still friends?"

Victor turned to him; his eyes were very dark.  "That's what you want, is it?"

"Of course, Vic, of course that's what I want, you're the best friend I've got -"  Will reached out to place his hand on Victor's, but he snatched it away before Will could make contact.

"No."  He stood, staring down at Will, his face still blank, his eyes still unfathomable, his voice still soft and steady.  "Don't ever speak to me again.  I don't care what you do with your pathetic little life, but stay out of mine."`

Will sat very still and watched him walk away.

 

* * *

 

 

_1997 - August 1st_

Hermione had been to a wedding, once, when she was very small.  It wasn't for a family member; she didn't have an extended family, at least not one that she'd ever met.  But her mum had made friends at work, and one of them got married, and there were lots of children at the wedding.  Hermione had spent most of the evening sitting off to to the side with her dad, who was deducing the life stories of all of the guests.  Mummy had gotten cross with him later, when Hermione had asked her what it meant to "have a cuckoo in the nest".

She hadn't gone to play with the other children out on the dance floor; she knew a few of them from school and they had never been very nice to her.  She'd always been a bit different, between her big teeth and her frizzy hair and the way she always knew all the answers.  She'd much rather sit with her daddy and listen to him tell funny stories.

 _This_ wedding was different.  There were still several people she knew from school, but these people were her friends.  Her dad wasn't there to sit and talk to, and she missed him terribly, but avoiding the dance floor wasn't even an option.  Ron had dragged her out early, and kept her there for most of the night.

He was glaring over her shoulder, now, in a spectacularly unsubtle fashion.  "Krum is looking at you."

"What?"  She attempted to glance surreptitiously over her shoulder, but knew that it must have come across at least as obvious as Ron's glaring.  Viktor Krum was, indeed, sitting at a table, looking somehow surly and wistful at the same time.  She felt a pang of regret - more than a pang.  It really wasn't fair to him, what had happened between them, and it couldn't have been easy for him to watch her dance the night away with someone else.

In the interest of keeping things calm, however, she schooled her features and tried to brush it all off.  "Oh, um, yes, I suppose that makes sense.  We were....quite close."

Ron's brow furrowed in suspicion as he continued to stare unabashedly at Viktor.  "He looks jealous."

"Shouldn't that make you feel proud?  That your former celebrity man-crush is jealous of you?"

Maybe the teasing wasn't a good choice, because Ron's scowl only deepened.  "If I didn't know better, I'd call the look on his face _possessive_. Like he thinks you belong to him."

"Well, that's ridiculous, I mean I haven't even seen him in -"

"Two years."  " - eight months."  They spoke at the same time, and Ron froze, dropping his arms.

"Eight months?  You were with him at Christmas?"

"Yes.  Ron, please, let's just keep on dancing."  She took his hands and tried to put them back in position, but he yanked them away.

"You didn't tell me that."

"It doesn't matter, Ron."

" _Doesn't matter?_   Of course it matters!  I thought you dated him for a few months, two years ago.  But you were together this whole time?  You spent the _holidays_ with him?"

Hermione thought that Ron's reaction to all this was terribly unfair, after all he'd been dating Violet at the time, so what right did her have to be jealous of Viktor?  But she wanted to calm him down, not escalate the situation, so she let that point go.  "No, we weren't together the whole time; yes I spent the holidays with him as I had nowhere else to go," (maybe someday she'd have to tell him the whole truth of it, but now was not the time) "and _right now_ I'm dancing with _you_.  Or at least I'm trying to.  Come on now, people are starting to stare."

Ron looked abashed. "You're right. I'm sorry."

She couldn't help the smirk.  "I'm always right."

The song ended, segueing into a slower tune.  The smile fell from Ron's face, and he swallowed, his eyes terrified but determined. Taking one of her hands in his, he put the other on her waist, drawing her close.

Hermione smiled as her other hand settled on his shoulder.  A blush had started at the tips of his ears and was spreading downward across his face, and he was looking everywhere but at her.  She squeezed his hand reassuringly, and he finally looked down.  His eyes instantly softened. 

“You look beautiful, Hermione.”

Half a smile lifted the corner of her mouth.  “Always the tone of surprise.”

“I’m surprised at myself, really.  That it took me so long to notice it.”

“That’s…really sweet, Ronald.”

It was his turn to smirk.  “Always the tone of surprise.”

She laughed, then, and so did he.  Their eyes met, and the world around them seemed to slow.  Ron’s eyes flickered down to her lips, and then he was leaning in to her, and her heart was pounding —

And somebody on the other side of the tent started coughing loudly - choking, really - and the spell was broken.

Ron dropped his arms and sprang back like he’d been burned.  “Butterbeers!  I’ll go get us some butterbeers!”

“Right!  I’m going to, um, go sit down.”

Hermione felt slightly dazed as she scanned the tent for Harry, his polyjuice disguise making it difficult to pick him out from the crowd of red-headed Weasleys (which was rather the point, after all).  By the time she found him, all the dancing she’d been doing was finally starting to catch up with her, and all she wanted to do was take her shoes off and put her feet up for about a week.

“I simply can’t dance anymore,” she declared she she sat down next to the temporarily red-headed Harry and took off one shoe.  Honestly, if she’d known Ron was going to keep her on her feet all night, she would have worn flats, but Ginny had insisted that the heels made her legs look fantastic.  “Ron’s gone looking to find more butterbeeers…Harry, are you okay?”

It was hard to read Harry’s expression, given that it wasn’t on his own face, but he looked extremely troubled.  He seemed at a loss to explain what was wrong, but he opened his mouth to try.

At that moment, however, a large, silver something fell through the ceiling onto the middle of the dance floor.  Hermione immediately recognized it as a patronus - some kind of large cat, a lynx maybe.  Cold dread stopped her heart, but her head went on autopilot.  Put on the shoe.  Pick up the bag.  Stand up.  Wand out.  
  
A hush fell, and Kingsley Shacklebolt’s voice filled the tent.  “The Ministry has fallen.  Scrimgeour is dead.  They are coming.”

Somebody screamed.  People started disapparating all around them, and Death Eaters were appearing, shooting curses; a lantern floating over Hermione's head exploded in a shower of red and gold sparks. 

For one infinitesimally brief moment, Hermione looked across the tent at Viktor, whose eyes were fixed on her, who was rushing in her direction, who was calling out her name.  For one half of a heartbeat, she wanted to go with him.

Then she grabbed Harry's hand and pulled him in the other direction, gripping her beaded bag like a life raft. "We have to find Ron. RON!”

“HERMIONE!”

There were too many people, too much screaming, not enough air.  But she was fighting her way through to crowd towards Ron, and he was fighting towards her, and when his hand grasped her arm, she turned on the spot, into the crushing darkness, taking Ron and Harry with her.

 

* * *

 

It was mostly quiet in the drawing room of Number 12, Grimmauld Place.  Harry, it turned out, talked in his sleep.  But aside from the occasional mumble or - God, was that a hiss? - it was almost oppressively silent.  Hermione knew that Ron was thinking about his family, worrying about their safety.  A major attack had happened, right in his own back garden.  She’d gone to extraordinary lengths to ensure that nothing like that would happen to her own family, and yet, she felt just as scared as if it just had.  For all intents and purposes, the Weasleys _were_ her family now; they had been ever since she'd showed up at the Burrow on the Knight Bus at dawn one June morning two years ago. 

Ron was the one who finally broke the silence.  “This sofa is bloody awful.  Springs poking everywhere.  Let’s move the cushions to the floor, yeah?” 

“Yeah, sure.”

Now that he had something to do, the words suddenly started flowing.  "I was terrified tonight, 'Mione.  I saw a curse fly right over your head. And I know we've been in these kinds of situations before, but...it felt different this time. If it had hit you...if I'd lost you...I don't think I could go on."

Hermione stopped with a cushion in her hands.  “Ron, don’t say things like that.  If one of us goes down, the others have to carry on."  She placed the cushion on the floor and nudged it slightly to the left so it would line up with the ones Ron had already moved. "This is more important than any of us, far more important than our wanting to be...more than friends.”

“Hermione, we’ve been more than friends for a long time now.  I'm just sorry that it took me so long to see it.”

She dropped down on to the cushions and leaned against the sofa, eyes closed, her voice a pained whisper.  "You don't even know everything there is to know about me."

He sat next to her, too close, their thighs almost touching.  "I know enough.  And I'd like to learn the rest, if you'll let me."  He held out his hand, and she took it, tentatively.

"There are things I can't tell you. Things I might never be able to tell you."

He smirked. "What, like an Unbreakable Vow?"

"Something like that," she mumbled.

"Bloody hell, really?"  She nodded.  He looked, for a moment, as if the foundation of his entire life had shifted and he didn’t know how or why.  Then he took a deep breath and nodded as if making a decision. "It doesn't matter, Hermione. What I do know, is enough to make me love you."

"God, please be logical, Ronald. There's no place in our lives for love right now."

"Well, you can go on believing that, and I'll just go on loving you."

"You're only seventeen, Ronald, you've no right to be so romantic."

"It's all downhill from here, I suppose. Now, here, you sleep on the cushions, I'll take the floor."

"Bloody Gryffindors, always so chivalrous."

"You know you like it, or you never would have been sorted with us."

She smiled, and stretched out on the cushions, and he covered her with the ratty blanket from the back of the sofa. They fell asleep holding hands.

 

* * *

 

It turned out to be impossible to ignore her feelings for him. It just couldn't be done, not while they were living in such close quarters for so long, never being apart from each other; sharing so much fear and despair and distress.

More than once, after she'd handed off the locket to Harry, when she was feeling wrung out and raw and utterly exhausted, she'd crawled in next to Ron in his bunk, burying her face in his chest and just breathing. There was something about the smell of him that connected directly to the part of her brain that processed feelings of safety and contentment.  The steady thrum of his heartbeat gave her something to focus on as she slowly emerged from the fog of fear and anxiety that the locket always cast over her thoughts. 

If Harry noticed that they didn't always sleep in their own beds, he didn’t say anything.

The hardest times were when it was Ron's turn to wear the locket.  Harry got irritable, Hermione got anxious, but Ron got downright nasty.  Suspicious.  Jealous.  He would say things that they all knew he didn't mean.  He didn't really think that Hermione secretly harbored romantic feelings for Harry.  He didn't really believe that Harry thought he was above them both.  Hermione understood this, because the thoughts that the horcrux made her think...they came from outside of herself, and she knew that they weren't real, she knew that they weren't actually her own thoughts and feelings, but she couldn't stop them.

And taking the locket off, was like coming up for air after being under water for far too long.  Suddenly there was room for emotions other than fear and anger, and very quickly the relief would be overwhelmed by guilt and regret.  _How could I have said those things?  Why did I let myself get so angry?_

Ron really did have the worst of it, though.  When he would hand the locket off to Hermione, he would retreat to his bunk and lay there, for hours sometimes, just staring at the ceiling.  And Hermione would start off wanting to comfort him, but soon the horcrux-thoughts would take her over, and she would start resenting him for being so mopey and self-indulgent, and then she would start to think about how bad it would get it they never managed to destroy the bloody thing, and soon she'd be outside trying not to cry, and poor Harry pretended he didn’t notice, because comforting her would just give Ron more to rage about the next time it was his turn with the locket.

And then, finally, Hermione's turn would be over, and she’d give the locket to Harry, and curl up next to Ron, and just, breathe.

 

* * *

 

_Winter_

She'd waited as long as she could, longer than was wise, really.

Once they left, once they apparated away, there would be absolutely no way for Ron to find them.  So she delayed as long as possible, and then a little longer, hoping against hope that he'd come back.  But he hadn’t.

The tension caused by the horcrux had gotten worse and worse, until it finally, inevitably snapped, and Ron simply walked away.  And he hadn’t come back.

And they really couldn’t wait any longer.  They couldn't linger.  Hermione took Harry’s silently offered hand, and together they disapparated.

Hermione tried to hold herself together, when they apparated on a windswept cliff overlooking the sea, but she couldn't stop the tears from falling.  She sank to her knees amongst the scattered, steel-grey boulders, and wept. Harry pretended not to notice as he paced around her in a large circle, around and around, muttering their well-practiced sequence of protective spells.

 _He’s gone, he's gone, he’s gone._   The words were stuck in her head, repeating over and over, as if she had forgotten that other words even existed.  Like the spokes on the drum of a music box, continually cycling. _He’s gone._

Harry was done with the spells now, he was gently prying the bag from her hand, he was unpacking the tent, he was setting it up.  _He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone._

And then, slowly, other words started to take shape in her mind, words like _stupid_ and _selfish_ and _childish_.  The numb disbelief was making way for painful, anguished anger.  Indignation at men - no, _boys_ , and their weakness.  Running away from their responsibilities, all because of their _feelings!_

Hermione had just enough self-awareness in that moment to know that it wasn’t just Ron she was angry with; but not enough to control the torrent of emotion that overcame her.  This was the same, _exactly the same_ , as what her father had done - run off and left the mission unfinished, and look at them all now!  If he had just _stuck with it, damn it_ , maybe, _maybe_ Voldemort could have been vanquished for good all those years ago and none of this would have ever happened!  Sure, she would have been without a father for a few months, or years, but she would have him _now_.

And that’s what it really came down to, wasn’t it?  She was practically alone now, only Harry was left.  She’d sent both of her parents away, wiped her very existence from their memories, and now Ron was gone, too.  The _idiot little boy_ who she loved despite herself, was even more of a child than she’d realized, and he’d left her.

But she’d always been alone, hadn’t she?  Coping with the teasing and the hatred and the violence, all in the name of a heritage that _wasn’t even hers_.  And the very same magic that kept her parents safe, put her in danger.  Clearly, her parents hadn’t forseen this particular possibility.  They were thinking in the moment, they were allowing their desire to live as a happy little family to override their cold, hard logic. 

Was it any surprise, really, that she had done the same, when she sent them away?  She was her parents’ daughter, through and through.

 _It's because of Voldemort_ , she thought fiercely. _All of this is because of Voldemort, and he needs to be stopped. No more lives destroyed, no more families torn apart - this has to end._

Hermione handed off the locket to Harry, climbed into Ron’s bunk, and cried.

 

* * *

 

The book was about bees.

Hermione had never been particularly interested in bees, herself, but it made her think of her father, which was comforting.  She often wondered how his hives were doing; she had no doubt that he’d acquired some once they'd settled in Australia.  She’d made sure to plant the idea of moving to an area known for its exquisite honey.  She liked to think that her dad’s would be the best - he'd probably placed a charm on his bees to ensure it.  Of course he wouldn't let Mum know that.  She'd think it was cheating.

Hermione smiled, thinking about her parents bickering about the ethics of magically enhanced honeybees.  The smile quickly faded when she remembered that her parents weren't her parents anymore.  Done well, a memory charm wouldn’t affect one’s personality at all; but having been the first memory charm Hermione had ever performed - and a complex one at that - she just couldn't be sure that they were still acting like themselves.  It might even be starting to wear off, which was bloody terrifying to think about, so she simply didn’t.

She sighed and closed the book.  It was no use; there was no burying herself in a book to forget her troubles tonight.  It was nearly her turn to take over the watch, anyway. 

Hermione put the book carefully back into her bag, and as she moved to head outside, she realized that she could hear voices.

 _Voices_.  Plural.  Oh no.  She knew that Harry was just outside with her wand, but being wandless in such a fraught situation made her feel distinctly vulnerable.  She hoped that her wand would serve Harry well enough to…

Harry.  That was Harry’s voice.  He was talking to someone…who on earth could Harry be talking to?

Hermione rushed outside and stopped short.

Ron was there.

Soaking wet and probably freezing - yes, there were drops of ice sparkling in his hair - and holding the _bloody Sword of Gryffindor_. 

“Hey.”

She couldn’t even blame the locket for the rage that overtook her then.

 

* * *

 

She was sitting at the table, warming her hands over a jar of blue flames, when Ron sat next to her.

“I’m really very sorry, ‘Mione.”  It was obvious that he was.  She’d rarely seen him so plainly wracked with guilt, for such an extended period of time.

She didn’t look at him.  She couldn’t.  She wasn’t ready to stop being angry yet.  “I know you are.”

She was _so bloody angry_.  Angry at him for leaving, angry at Harry for forgiving him so completely, so easily.  And angry at herself, for not being able to forgive him, too.  She was just so hurt.  Feelings, again!  The logical thing to do, of course, would be to forgive him and move on.  They were three again; they could function properly as a team again, as she and Harry hadn’t quite been able to manage since Ron had left.

But she couldn’t.  He was just so…just so… _ugh_.  It was so understandable, what had happened.  It was the Horcrux’s influence that had made him act that way, she’d known that from the start.  It should be so easy to forgive him.  But she was still too hurt.

“But you’re still not ready to forgive me?”

“I want to.”

“But?”  He somehow sounded at once resigned yet hopeful.

“Do you remember, when you told me, that you didn’t think you’d be able to go on, if you lost me?”

“Yes.” 

She finally looked up at him  “Well now I know what that feels like, Ron, to have to go on without you.  And I did it, because I had to, but I hated every minute of it.  I suppose it’s good to know that I have that strength, but I wish I’d never had to find that out.  I hate that I know now, what it feels like to lose you.”

“So you’re still mad at me?”  It was plain to see how relieved he was, but he tried very hard to keep the look on his face contrite.

She sighed.  “I’m always mad at you.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he smiled and kissed her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wedding scene is from _Deathly Hallows_ , chapter 8, where it is told from Harry's point of view. The person who coughs and ruins the moment is, in fact, Harry.


	7. Chapter 7

_1979_

It wasn’t until her second missed period that Molly become suspicious.

It wasn't unheard of for her to miss a period when she was under a lot of stress, and faking a friend’s death, lying to everyone she knew, and worrying herself sick about him while he was undercover with an incredibly dangerous secret society of dark magic…well, it wasn't an exaggeration to say that was by far the most stress she’d ever been under. It was certainly more stressful than the extra course load she’d taken on to graduate University a year early, and it was worse, even, than doing the same in medical school - and she’d skipped a period once or twice during finals at both schools.

So when her period never came in January, she took it in stride.

But when February came and went with nothing but a vague sense of nausea and an aversion to fried foods, that’s when it finally clicked.

At least she was able to run the test on herself during her lunch break - the thought of eating cafeteria food was more than mildly unappetizing at the moment - she couldn't imagine having to explain to her doctor exactly why she needed her hCG levels checked. Not that she should have to explain, but she really didn't feel like getting a lecture. Not now.

Molly ran the test four times, just to be sure.

Then she called Mycroft.

 

* * *

 

 

“Doctor Hooper.”

“Mister Holmes.”

Molly hadn’t been in Mycroft’s office for many years, and even then it had only been the one time.  Part of Mycroft’s job as magical liaison to the muggle government was to “procure” (a nicer way of saying “forge”) records for witches and wizards who wished to reside in the muggle world.  His office was much the same now as it had been then; utterly posh and utterly British and utterly muggle.  There was absolutely no indication that the man who occupied it was a wizard - except, perhaps, for the note that sat on the desk.  It bore a single word, written in an achingly familiar scrawl: “Horcruxes”.  Mycroft casually crumpled it in his fist and tossed it into the trashcan as Molly sat down.

She was trying to figure out what it meant, when Mycroft cleared his throat.  “I'd ask why you wanted to speak with me, but I’ve already deduced it.”

That brought her back to the present in a hurry.  “Have you?”

Mycroft steepled his fingers beneath his chin.  Molly wondered whether the brothers knew that they shared that particular gesture.  “Of course.”

“I would’ve thought it would be more of a shock to you."

“My brother has always been much more prone to sentiment than he would like the world to believe.”

“So you’re not surprised, then?”

“Surprised?  Yes.  Shocked, not in the least.”

“So you believe me when I say it’s his."

He leaned back in his chair.  “If it wasn’t, now that would be shocking.”

Molly's eyes narrowed.  “I don’t know whether or not to be insulted by that.”

“Believe me, I hold your loyalty to my brother in the highest regard.”

“...Thank you." 

“Of course you understand that I must make absolutely sure.”

“Naturally."

Extracting his wand from a hidden drawer in his desk, Mycroft came around the desk as Molly stood.  He pointed the wand at Molly’s abdomen and muttered “ _paternitas revelio_ ”.  A silvery shadow of an otter emerged from the tip of Mycroft’s wand - Sherlock’s patronus.

Molly sat back down as Mycroft returned to his seat, placing the wand back into its hidden compartment.  "Well, then, now that that's settled, we’ll need to make arrangements.”

“For?”

“Your relocation, of course.”

A weight settled in her stomach.  “I’m sorry?”

“You can’t stay in London.  If Sherlock’s new…associates were to find out about you, you would not be safe, and neither would he.  If it is discovered that he fathered a child with a muggle-born witch, he would be declared a blood traitor and punished accordingly.”

Cold dread snaked its way up Molly’s spine.  “Oh my God, I hadn't thought…”

“No, and neither did he, I'm sure.”

Molly's mind was racing.  _Relocation.  Blood Traitor.  Punished._ She swallowed.  “Will I have to…"

“Nothing so drastic as faking your death, I should think.  It wouldn’t be terribly far-fetched for you to go off and start over in a new town.  You won't even need to change your name.”

“Really?  Then why…"

“Because if you were to continue on as normal, I would not be able to place you under the same degree of magical protection.”

She nodded.  “So it's to be a safe-house, then.”

“Under the protection of the Fidelius Charm, naturally.”

“Will Sherlock be able to find me?”

“Once the baby is born, I will of course inform him of your location.”

“Right.  Okay then."  Something about what he'd said didn't sit quite right with her. It was worded too carefully. "You do plan to tell him about the baby before she’s born, though, right?”

He fixed her with a cold, level stare.  “I'm not certain that would be wise.”

Molly felt her eyebrows rising.  “I’m not certain it would be wise to keep it from him." Her voice went icy.  "He doesn’t think he’s going to survive this mission.  He’s not planning on coming back.  So consider this: I’m a part of your family now, forever.  Imagine the Christmas dinners, if Sherlock isn’t there, because of you.  So you will tell him that he has something to come home to, because if his child grows up without a father, I’ll make damn sure she knows whose fault it is.”  Somewhere during the course of her increasingly heated speech, she had risen.  She had placed her hands on the desk.  She had leaned forward aggressively.

Mycroft actually looked flustered.  “ _Fault?_ ”   

“Isn’t it _convenient_ , that there’s a bloody supervillain about, determined to destroy Sherlock in just the right way to get him in where you need him to be?  I’m not saying it was your plan all along, but I _am_ saying you could damn well have stopped this ages ago if you’d wanted to.”

Molly could see him slowly breaking down under the weight of her fierce gaze, until finally, he stood primly and walked to the door, holding it open.

“Of course, I shall inform him immediately.  Good day, Miss Hooper.”

 

* * *

 

_1969_

Will stopped showing up for their study sessions in January of their seventh year.

He seemed to have had a falling out with Victor during the Christmas holiday, and in the aftermath, he withdrew, even more than usual, from absolutely everyone.  Eventually Molly stopped waiting for him at their table in the library, and took to studying by the fire in the Hufflepuff common room.  Her eccentricities in studying muggle subjects on her own time had long since stopped being interesting enough to merit any mocking.

Victor was acting oddly, too.  Every week he had a new girl on his arm…he seemed to be running through a checklist of all of the of-age girls at Hogwarts (and some of the 16-year-olds as well).  Molly wondered if he would give asking her out a shot, but he never did. She was actually a bit disappointed at that; she probably would have said yes to a day together in Hogsmeade with Victor.  It would have have given her an opportunity to question him about what was going on with Will.  She probably could have just asked him, without the pretense of a date, but he seemed to be avoiding her almost as diligently as Will was avoiding the both of them.

It just wasn’t _fair_.  Whatever had happened between the two of them, it certainly wasn’t her fault.  And she could help him.  Whatever had happened, it had obviously hurt Will deeply, and all she wanted to do was be there for him, to help him through it.  To be his friend.

And God knows he needed a friend.  With neither Molly nor Victor to keep an eye on him, Will showed up to meals even more rarely than usual, and it was obvious he wasn’t sleeping.  Possibly he was avoiding the Ravenclaw dormitory in his determination to avoid Victor.  He was slowly progressing beyond ethereal into sickly, and it caused Molly an actual physical pain in her chest to see him like this.

It was impossible to get Will alone to talk to him if he was trying to avoid you.  He was far too good at slipping away, at hiding in plain sight.  Victor, though…Victor, she could corner.  She caught him after Potions one day - Will hadn’t even bothered to show up to class.

“Victor,” Molly said softly, grabbing his arm as he tried to hurry past her.  “Please.”

Victor met her eyes for the first time since Christmas break.  “I’m sorry, Molly.  I know you’re worried about him, I know you care, but you shouldn’t."

“I shouldn’t be worried?”

“You shouldn’t care.  He’s not…he’s never…”

“Never _what_ , Victor?” 

“He’s never going to love you, Molly.  He'll let you love him. He'll take, and take, and never give anything back. And the best you can hope for is that someday, he'll treat you like an experiment, just to see what it's like. But he will never love you.  He doesn't know how."

Molly let go of his wrist, stunned.  What on _earth_ was Victor talking about? “ _Love?_   I don’t want him to love me.”

“Molly, don’t lie to me. You know I can tell.”

“I'm not. I just want him to be alright.”

Victor shrugged.  “He isn’t.”

And with that, Victor turned and walked away.

 

* * *

 

_1998, May 2_

"I'll go with you."

"No.  Kill the snake.  Kill the snake, and then it's just him."

Ron and Hermione stood on the stairs, and watched Harry walk away, towards the forest, towards his death.

"He's really gonna do it, isn't he?"

"He's got to, 'Mione, it's the only way."

"Why do I care so much?"

"Because that's who you are."

She sat down heavily on the stairs.  "Wouldn't it be easier to just...not care?  The friend I've spent years of my life trying to protect, has to go and die.  For the greater good.  Logic tells me to let him go.  But...it _hurts_.  And I wish that it didn't.  I wish I could turn it off.  Because all I want right now is to run after him, and take him someplace safe, where none of this can touch him, and he'll never be hurt again, because he deserves that."

"Doesn't matter what we deserve, though, does it?  It never has."

Hermione stared blankly, her voice flat.  “I never understood before, why my Dad did it. But I do now.  And I can't blame him for it anymore."

“Hermione…what on earth are you talking about?”

Slow realization came over Hermione.  She had spoken without thinking, and now that her words had caught up with her, cold dread settled in her belly as she realized that she should not have been able to say what she had just said. 

She took a deep, steadying breath as she looked up at Ron’s confused face.  "Ron, I'm going to try to tell you something that I've never been able to tell you before, and if I can, if I'm able to, then my parents are in terrible danger."

"Hermione, what..."

"My name is Hermione Holmes."

Ron's brow furrowed in confusion.  “Holmes?  There's a wizarding family named Holmes.”

“Yes, I know, my dad is one of them."  She waited for the choking sensation, but it didn't come.  "Sherlock Holmes.”

Ron's eyes went very wide.  "Sherlock Holmes? The muggle-baiting fake detective?"

"Don't ever call my dad a fake!  He's not a fake, he's not a muggle-baiter, he just had to let them believe that so he could get in with the Death Eaters."  Ron's eyebrows had climbed nearly to his hair.  "He _was_ undercover!"

"And you never told us all this before, because?"

"Because I'm not the secret keeper! My mum was.”

Hermione watched the wheels turn behind Ron's eyes, and saw the instant he understood her panic.

"But if you're able to tell me now, then, either the Fidelius Charm's been lifted, or…”

"Or my mum is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lines from the beginning of the 1998 section are from _Deathly Hallows, Part 2_. I've taken the book version of most events but decided to go with the movie for this part.


	8. Chapter 8

_1978, September  
_

When Molly opened her eyes, Sherlock was there, sitting on the edge of her bed, a bundle of pink blankets and soft brown curls in his arms.

"You're here."

"You're set to be discharged soon.  I'm here to bring you home."

"Home?  You're coming with us?"

"Yes."  There was something about the way he was staring at the baby that made her think that he was using her as an excuse not to look up.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"  She sought out his eyes as he transferred the baby to her arms, but he still wouldn't look at her.

"They're going after witches and wizards who live in the muggle world.  Calling them blood traitors and treating them as enemies.  It doesn't matter if they find out I'm lying to them, or that I'm your baby's father; they're going to come after you anyway."

Cold fear gripped her heart.  "But the Fidelius charm..."

"Is placed on the safehouse, and another was placed on the hospital when you checked in.  You're only protected as long as you're there, or here.  If they find out where you are, they won't be able to get in, but they'll still know you're there.  You'd never be able to leave, even for a moment."  He met her eyes, then, and his were steely grey and determined.  "It's not enough, Molly.  It's not nearly enough."

"So what do we do?"

"We perform another charm, with you as the secret-keeper."

"And what secret, exactly, am I going to be keeping?"  She knew what he was going to say, of course she did, but she wanted _so badly_ to be wrong.

"The continued fact of our existence."

"Is that even possible?" she whispered.  In theory, it should be, but she'd never heard of anyone doing it.  Although maybe that just proved that it worked.

"I'm reasonably certain that it is."

"What happens after you perform the charm?  We just...disappear?"

"New lives, new names...the people who knew us before wouldn't recognize us, even if they were staring us straight in the face."

"For how long?"

"I don't know.  Maybe a very long time."

Molly closed her eyes and held the baby close to her chest.  "Oh, Sherlock, I don't know if I can..."

"Molly, I know it's a lot to ask, but I honestly can't see any other way to keep you safe.  Both of you.  She didn't ask to be born into this, and it's our responsibility to keep her out of it.  We owe her that."

They both looked down at the baby, so perfect, so small, so vulnerable.  So oblivious to the hell she had been born into.  Her nose crinkled as she sighed in her sleep.  Molly saw Sherlock in the expression; Sherlock saw Molly.

"She really is perfect, isn't she?"

"Of course she is.  She's a miniature you."

 

* * *

 

Molly and Hermione had been checked out, and Sherlock was pushing them, in a wheelchair, through the lobby of the hospital.  Through the front doors, they could see Mycroft's black car parked at the curb, waiting to take Molly and the baby back to their safehouse. 

Molly looked up at him, clutching the baby to her, her big brown eyes full of tears.  "Is it really the only way?"

"Yes, Molly, I think it is."

She closed her eyes and nodded.  "Okay, then."

Sherlock drew his wand.

 

* * *

 

 

_1969, June_

Will had managed to find a compartment to himself, probably because everyone was afraid to go near him.

He was asleep when Molly found him.  She had wanted to talk to him, to say goodbye, but she couldn’t bear to wake him up.  He probably hadn't slept in weeks. His skin was deathly pale, he was far, far too thin, and the shadows under his eyes were as dark as fresh bruises.  Molly pushed one limp curl back from his forehead, and bit her lip with worry as she observed the dry, chapped state of his. 

In the past couple of months, he’d been missing from class more than he’d shown up.  He’d taken his NEWTs - and probably even passed them, knowing him - but she hadn’t seen him in the library since December, before Christmas break.  Come to think of it, she’d never seen him in there before they’d started studying together, either.  He only ever went to the library to study with her.

But why did he _stop?_   She’d spent the entire term trying to figure it out, and was no closer to an answer.  He was clearly not well.  But why… _why_ , push her away?  They’d been friends - hadn’t they?

“If you’re done staring, I’ll ask you to kindly go back to your own compartment and leave me alone."

It was heartbreaking, how rough and weak his voice sounded.  Her heart lurched in her chest, and she fought back a sob.

“I just wanted to say goodbye, and…and good luck, William.  I hope things go well for you from now on.”

Will finally opened his eyes to watch her leave.

 

* * *

 

 

_1998, May 1_

He found her sitting on the back steps, watching the sun rise over the orange grove.  A cup of tea was cradled in her hands, but she wasn’t drinking it. 

He sat beside her.  “The same dream again?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you able to see her face this time?”

“I thought I had, but…” she shook her head.

“But what?”

“But when I think about it, it looked like my face.  I mean…her nose was a little different, eyes were a little smaller, and her hair was curly, but…she looked like me.”

“Did she say anything new?”

She shook her head.  “No, still the same thing: ‘Hermione Holmes never existed’.”

He sighed.  “Well, that much is true.  There is absolutely no record of anyone named Hermione Holmes in England or Australia in the last fifty years.”

“I know that.  But I _know_ that name.  I don’t know how, but I know it.  It means something to me.”

The man currently known as Wendell Wilkins sat and watched his wife stare in the direction of their hives, knowing that she was seeing nothing, knowing that she was thinking of the girl who’d appeared in her dreams almost every night since they’d come to Australia three years ago.  She was close, so close to figuring it out on her own; all she needed was a little push.  It was time; she was ready.

“Monica.”

“Hmm?”

“I received an owl this morning.  Long distance, from England.”

“Who on earth would be writing to us from England?”

“It’s a newspaper.  There’s something I think you should see.”

She finally looked at him, then, and saw that he was holding a copy of the Daily Prophet.  She put down her cup of tea on the stoop next to her and took the newspaper, a look of suspicious concern on her face.  Then she looked down.

Underneath the word “WANTED” in giant block letters, were three photographs of shifty looking teenagers.  A boy with glasses and a scar on his forehead was in the middle - “Undesirable No.1, Harry Potter.”  To his left was a boy with a long nose and a freckled face, “Ronald Weasley”.  And to the right, was the girl from her dream.

“Hermione Granger," she whispered.

“Molly, look at me.”

“My name is Monica.” she sounded dazed, and her eyes were starting to go unfocused.

“No, your name is Molly.  Look at me, Molly.”  He placed a hand on her cheek and gently turned her head to face him.  She couldn’t quite make eye contact; she was blinking rapidly, eyes darting about.

“Listen to me, Molly.  You’re so close to breaking through it on your own, I can feel how close you are, I wouldn’t be saying this otherwise.  You know what your name is.  You know what my name is.  And you know who that girl is.”

Molly’s eyes squeezed shut and she started to shake her head from side to side, as if to clear it.  “Molly, you can do this.  You can remember.”

Suddenly, she gasped, eyes flying open and meeting his.  Her voice was a whisper, soft and uncertain.  “Sherlock?”

“Yes, yes, Molly, my Molly.”  He drew her close and held her tight, relief flooding through his veins. 

“It’s Hermione, it’s our little girl.”

“Yes.”

“How long have you known?”

“A couple of months.”

She laughed.  “Of course if anyone could break through a memory charm, it’s Sherlock bloody Holmes.”

He shrugged.  "I had to figure out why this bloody tattoo kept on burning."

"Is it hurting now?"

He nodded and rubbed absently at his forearm. "Woke me up.  Still aches a bit now. Something big's happening.  I’ve been summoned into battle."

"Where?"

"Hogwarts."  If Voldemort was getting ready to attack Hogwarts, then he must feel relatively assured of his victory.  Either that, or he was exceedingly desperate.  Either way, judging from the price on Hermione's head, she was likely right in the middle of it and in terrible danger.

Molly's nose scrunched.  "It's too far to apparate."

"Well, theoretically..."

"NO. There's a reason it's outlawed, Sherlock, we'd both end up splinched."

"Wait, _we?_ "

"Oh, you think I'm going to let you swan off on your own and leave me here in bloody Australia?"

" _Bloody Australia?_ You like it here!"

" _Not the point_ , Sherlock."

He tried to stare her down, but if he had learned anything over the years, it was not to go against his wife when she had her mind set.  It was a waste of effort.  "Unregulated portkey it is."

"You know how to make a portkey?"

"Mycroft taught me."

"Of course he bloody did.  Why the hell did we take a 22 hour flight to get here then?"

"Well obviously I didn't _remember_ that I knew how to make a portkey at the time."  Molly huffed.  “We’ll have to lift the Fidelius charm.  We can’t just show up in Hogsmeade as a couple of muggles and start asking questions.”

Molly nodded, determined.  Sherlock pointed his wand at the newspaper, just above the picture of Hermione’s scowling face.  “ _Portus._ ”  
_  
_

* * *

 

They landed on a street corner near the Hog’s Head Inn.  A large group of students in their nightclothes were standing in the street, huddled in groups.  Some were panicked, some seemed dazed, all looked frightened.

“Is she here?” Molly cried out to Sherlock.  “Do you see her?”

"No, no. These are the under age ones, the ones who're being evacuated. Hermione's 18, she'll be right in the middle of it all.”

Molly pointed at the Hog’s Head, where another group of evacuees was streaming out into the night.  “Well if that’s how they’re getting out, then it must be the way in as well.”

“Right.”  Sherlock grabbed her hand and started towards the Inn.

Through the door, through the bar, up the stairs.  Through the portrait hole, through the tunnel, through the Room of Requirement, into the corridor.  Into chaos.

And there, amidst the wreckage of a furious battle that seemed to be at a momentary truce, leaning calmly against the wall across from the door, as if he had been waiting for them, was James Moriarty.

"Did you miss me?"

Sherlock drew his wand and stepped in front of Molly.

“Isn’t this _fun?_   Oh, that's right, you don't like war, do you, Sherlock?  Faked your death twice to get out of the last one.”

“I faked my death twice to protect the people I love.”

“And look at all the good it did them." 

“You’re dead.”  Molly looked at Sherlock.  He was still trying to push her behind him.  “He’s dead.”

“Oh, because it’s sooooo difficult to fake one’s own death, isn’t it.  Wonderful idea, by the way, using the Fidelius charm to change your identities.  Great minds think alike."

“Obvious".  Sherlock's voice sounded bored, but Molly could feel his tension.  "I’ve always known that you’d done it.  What I’ve never been able to figure out is who you used to be.”

“Well, that _is_ rather the point. And that’s the beauty of using the Fidelius charm to create a new identity, isn’t it?  You could be staring right into the eyes of someone who knew you, _intimately_ , and they’d never know it.

"But you know, if you do something stupid like _lifting_ the charm, people are going to start making connections pretty fast.  Like this, right here.”  He indicated the Wanted poster hanging lopsided on the corridor wall behind him.  “‘Hermione Granger, known associate of Undesirable No.1, believed to be traveling with him.’  Why, she looks just like our Molly did at that age, doesn’t she?”  The picture of a scowling Hermione, obviously chosen to make her seem as menacing as possible, was reflected in the face of her mother, who wore an identical scathing expression.

“And there’s only one reason for you to have lifted the charm now - to come and save her.  But you can’t.  She’s right smack in the middle of exactly what you tried so hard to protect her from.  So in the end, I don’t even have to be the one to burn your heart out.  It’s going to happen anyway.  I don’t even need a cruciatus curse to torture you.  I can do it with my words.  You created me, Sherlock Holmes.  You made me who I am.  And I created you.  Because we’re just alike, you and I.”

"I don't know who you were, or what I'm supposed to have done to create you, but I'm relatively certain that I didn’t make you the way you are.  I didn’t make you kill Carl Powers.”

Moriarty shrugged one shoulder and tilted his head lightly.  “All right, granted, I’ve always been a little off," he lilted.

"A little?" Molly exclaimed.  "Murdering a fellow student at 13 is a _little_ off?"

"Ah, Molly. Loyal, dependable Hufflepuff Molly Hooper. Perfect choice for a secret keeper, really. I'm my own secret keeper, of course. Means I don't have to do something stupid like lift the charm to let you know the _terrible truth_.

"My name isn’t James Moriarty, or Richard Brook. “  He leaned in and stage-whispered.

“It’s Victor Trevor.”  
  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Beautifully Obsessed](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifullyObsessed/pseuds/BeautifullyObsessed) is a wonderful beta, and also an enabler who encouraged me to go ahead and write this twist. I'm so sorry, Victor fans.


	9. Chapter 9

_1998, May 2_

As if a curtain was suddenly lifted from some corridor of her mind, Molly suddenly recognized the man standing in front of her.  Not just as James Moriarty, the madman who had forced Sherlock to fake his own death.  Not just as Jim from Accounting, the seemingly sweet man who had taken her on three dates.  But as Victor Trevor, her _friend_ , who she had joked and debated and studied with.  Who had tried to convince her, and Sherlock, that Carl Powers’ death had been a horrible accident.

Because _he_ was the one who had killed him.

“I’ve always known that the two of you belonged together.  Sweet little Molly Hooper, and lovesick William Holmes, pretending he didn’t understand differential equations. ‘Oh, Molly, teach me about muggles,’" he mocked in a cruel imitation of Sherlock's voice.  "So _obvious_.  And still somehow trying to pretend that you were above all that.  Love.  Sex.  But you’ll take it from anyone who’ll give it to you, because you’re pathetic.  And you’re ordinary.”

Sherlock was still trying to keep Molly behind him, despite the fact that Moriarty had yet to draw his own wand.  Sherlock was still and silent, taut as a bowstring. 

“I told you I’d burn the heart out of you, Sherlock.  Just like you burned mine, when you used me.  You think I didn’t know?  That you wished I was _her?_   You thought she was too good for you…but _I wasn’t._   I wasn’t too precious for you to fuck, just to see what it feels like to let someone love you.  I was an experiment to you, don’t you think I _KNOW THAT?_ "

That was enough for Molly.  "So you had consensual sex with someone who you knew didn't love you.  That makes it okay to try to kill him? To threaten everyone he cares about?  Are you really trying to claim the moral high ground here?  After all of the people you’ve _murdered?”_

“Molly, if you don’t shut up I swear to God I will kill you.”

His voice was calm, but she drew her wand. "I'd like to see you try."

That finally broke Sherlock out of buffering mode.  "I did what I thought you wanted.  I didn't know it would make you hate me."

"Oh, William. I could never hate you. I just want us to burn, together."

He drew his wand, slowly, deliberately. He took a step towards Sherlock.

Molly whispered.

" _Avada kedavra_.”

And James Moriarty, Victor Trevor, their friend, their nemesis, dropped to the floor, dead. 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock looked at Molly in astonishment.  She was breathing heavily, her wand arm still raised, trembling.  She closed her eyes and started to crumple, and he caught her.

"Oh my God," she moaned.  "That really takes a lot out of you, doesn't it."

"I wouldn't know," he murmured as he lowered them both to the floor and drew her up into his lap.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Molly whispered, resting her head on his shoulder.

"No, I'm sorry.  You shouldn't have had to do that."

"He hurt you, so many times.  And he was standing between me and my daughter.  I don't regret it."

Sherlock nodded, eyes closed.  "We should try to find her.  Do you think you can stand, now?"

"Yeah, I think so."  They scrambled to their feet and set off down the hallway, in the direction of the Great Hall.

"Strange to be back here, isn't it?"

"It's been a long time," Sherlock agreed.

"Do you think anyone else will recognize us?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said, but he was rolling down his sleeve to cover his forearm.

Everywhere they looked, there was rubble and dust, there were burn marks on the paintings, there was blood splattered on the walls.  They reached the entrance to the Great Hall and looked inside; at the rows of bodies, at the grieving families. 

Sherlock couldn't see anyone who looked like Hermione.  "We'd know, wouldn't we?"  Molly's voice was tense.  "If something had happened to her?  We'd feel it."  He couldn't bear to look anymore, so he turned away.

And then, there she was, running for the front door, followed closely by the boy from the newspaper, the one who _wasn’t_ Potter.  He was grabbing her arm, trying to hold her back.

“Hermione, no.  It’s out of our hands now.”

“No, Ron, I’m not going to let him die!  Fred, and Lupin, and Tonks, and Colin, and _maybe even my mum_ , it’s too much, I’m not letting Harry die too!”

The boy pulled her in to himself, her back to his front, and wrapped both arms around her waist.  “’Mione, stop.”

Sherlock’s wand was up before he knew what he was doing.  “Unhand my daughter immediately.”

The boy released her and took several steps back.  Hermione went very still. 

"Sherlock, no."  Molly put a hand on Sherlock's wand arm, and he lowered it, slowly.

Hermione turned around, slowly, and her eyes widened several sizes  A sob escaped her as she ran into her mother’s arms.  “You're alive, you’re alive.  I was so scared, Mum.  Oh my God, I've missed you so much. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”

“Don’t ever, _ever_ , do anything like that again, do you understand me, young lady?”     

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.  I just wanted you to be safe.”

“That’s the problem, though, isn’t it?"  Molly was speaking in soothing tones and stroking her daughter's hair.  "We’re all so concerned with keeping each other safe that nobody’s doing anything to actually solve the problem.”

Hermione picked her head up from Molly's shoulder and looked her in the eye, her mouth set in a grim line.  “Harry is.  He’s gone to the woods to give himself up.”

“And you want to go stop him.”

“I have to, Mum, it’s my job to protect him.  It’s what I’ve always done.”

“But if he’s decided that sacrificing himself is what needs to be done, then you have to let him do it."

Sherlock spoke up then.  "Even if you succeeded, even if you managed to save him, this would never end. It would never be over. Because he's a horcrux, isn’t he?”

Hermione looked at him and nodded slowly, trying to swallow the lump in her throat.  Molly didn't know whether he had deduced it or simply read Hermione's thoughts, but she seemed relieved that she didn't have to say it out loud.

"How, Dad? How did you know?  About the horcruxes?”

"Because that was my mission, to find out how to defeat him. My particular brand of legilimency proved undetectable to him. I discovered that he had made horcruxes, I discovered that there were several, but I never found out what they were or where they were hidden, because I abandoned the mission in order to protect you.  It was a mistake, and I should have known that you’d end up paying for it.”

“But you didn’t…why didn’t you ever _say_ anything??”

“Well I hardly expected that _my daughter_ would be the one to hunt them down.  Although, as stated, I probably should have.  Understanding irony’s never been my strong suit.”

Hermione ran to him and threw her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest.  "I don't blame you, Dad.  I know why you did what you did and I don't blame you."

His arms enfolded her in a fierce embrace.  His little girl was _alive_ , and _brave_ and a bloody hero.  "I'm so proud of you."

Hermione smiled sheepishly. "I suppose ill be getting an earful about my shoddy spell work since you both managed to break through my memory charm."

"Well it did take us nearly three years.  Not too bad for a first attempt.”

“Oh, Hermione.”  Molly moved behind Hermione, and Sherlock opened his arms and wrapped them around both of his girls, and the three of them stood, tangled together, in the middle of the entrance hall.  “You are so much braver and so much better than either of us could ever have hoped for, than we ever could have been.”

And maybe that was the point, Sherlock thought.  Maybe each generation repeated the trials of the one that came before, not because they were stuck in an endless cycle that could never end, but because the younger generation was better equipped to face them.  Not to repeat their parents' mistakes, but to _correct_ them.

Eight years later, Sherlock sat in a hospital chair, holding a bundle of pink blankets and soft red curls.   He looked around the crowded room, at the friends and family who had piled in to congratulate his daughter and her husband on the birth of their first child, and knew, in his heart, that he had been right.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think we've seen the last of this 'verse. First of all, I do know exactly what happens to John, it just wasn't part of *this* story. Also? Stay-at-home-dad Sherlock raising little Hermione? Oh, there's lots to mine there.
> 
> I'm thinking, though, that I need to get back to my Divergent!lock story, which has been neglected for far too long. 
> 
> Come see me [on tumblr](http://lavender-lily.tumblr.com).


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